


Leprechaun

by 1sendai



Series: The Leprechaun [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, As usual I don't know what tags to use, Because I'm rubbish at tags, Bisexual John, Bottom John, Canon-Typical Violence, Confused Sherlock, Eventual Smut, Fluff and crack creep in like basilisks in the plumbing, Harry is a Watson but has a different last name, Hurt John, John is a leprechaun, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mary is a witch, More tags may follow, No really Mary is a witch, Oddly enough leprechaun John isn't even Irish, Slow Build, Sorry tags are not in any sort of order, a bit talky in the middle, explicit rating is for smut in later chapters, which means Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6271453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1sendai/pseuds/1sendai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is rescued from almost certain death by an unusual man named John who claims to be a leprechaun. Sherlock might even start believing in magic and maybe even in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Tonight you die, Sherlock Holmes!" cackled the suspect, Paddy O'Brian, waving his gun like a madman.

The wind wailed up and over the low cliffs, as waves crashed into the rocks far below. This same wind tangled the dark, curly hair of the World’s only Consulting Detective. It blew his coat out behind him and passed into the empty grass-covered hills.

It was the dead of night and ten miles to the nearest village. No help would arrive; this would indeed be Sherlock Holmes’s last bow. And now, here at the end, he realized that he didn't want to die. He felt his skin crawl with goose bumps, and suddenly he was so bloody cold.

"Say nighty-night, Sherly," crowed O'Brian.

And the last words that Sherlock Holmes would ever hear would be spoken by an idiot.

"Really?” asked a voice hidden in the dark, “This is how you plan to end the greatest mind ever to grace the western shores of Éire? Not to mention he plays the fiddle like an angel; his music makes me cry. And have you seen his face? His cheekbones could break your heart. They broke my heart."

"Who's out there?" demanded O'Brian harshly.

"Just me," said a light tenor. "M'name's John."

O'Brian goggled. Even Sherlock blinked his eyes rapidly. One second, there was no one standing in the tall grass; the next second, a short, fair-haired man appeared out of nowhere. He grinned at Sherlock, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Even more astonishing, the stranger had said that Sherlock possessed ‘the finest mind ever to grace the western shores of Éire’, he’d even praised his violin playing.

But Sherlock had never met this man before. How…

"That's a fine pistol you have there," said the man, maching slowly forward. Sherlock noticed that his hair glowed, no doubt reflecting the three-quarter moon rising high overhead.

The detective had to confess that the stranger was rather attractive, albeit a bit short. He was perhaps five foot six—plus or minus an inch.

"Don't come no closer, les' you want t’die," snarled Paddy, having redirected the gun at the man calling himself John.

Sherlock privately expected that ‘John’ was an alias, and not a very creative one at that, indicating that ‘John’ was of only average intelligence. Sherlock had to concede that ‘John’ excelled at the art of stealth. Where had the man come from? Perhaps he’d lain in wait, hidden in the grass just in case Sherlock unwisely drove O’Brian towards the cliffs? That seemed unlikely…

"Nah, you don't want to shoot _me_ ," said John, who had placed himself between Sherlock and the gunman. He made a rather inadequate shield, although he was certainly brave. "I have something for you, Paddy O’Brian. _Run, Sherlock_. Do you like gold, Paddy? I have gold. _Run, Sherlock_.”

John opened his hand to reveal a large gold-colored coin. It was larger than a Krugerrand. It was larger than any gold coin that Sherlock had ever seen—so, obviously a fake. However, judging by the avaricious look on O’Brian’s face, the criminal had been successfully duped by the adorable blond charlatan.

‘Wait, did I just think adorable?’ wondered Sherlock.’And why should I care about the color of his hair.’

“Gold. A golden coin,” breathed O’Brian greedily.

“Did I say only one coin, Paddy?” asked John with patently false bonhomie, before muttering softly but firmly, “ _Dammit, Sherlock, when someone pops out of nowhere to save your bleedin arse, and then tells you to run, you bloody well run_."

"What’re you mutterin’ about? Are you plottin’ against me?” shouted Paddy angrily, turning his handgun from John to Sherlock then back to John.

"Patric Seamus O'Brien,"John called loudly. "Look here, in my hand. I have _two _gold coins, worth...well, I don’t know the modern exchange rate, but they’re worth _a lot_. And there’s more where they came from. Let’s trade, I'll give you my gold, and you let this lovely man go free. _Really, it’s past time to run, Sherlock._ Just look at this lovely, yellow gold, Paddy. Just think, this gold could be yours can be _yours_."__

Three gold coins, all differing in size, now gleamed in John's hand; in fact, they seemed to glow. "Are you…magic?" asked O'Brien, his thick stupid lips gaping open like a grouper.

"Of course he isn't," said Sherlock.

“Ahhh, I din’t think so,” murmured O’Brian sadly.

"Arghhh! You're both sodding idiots!" cried John, fairly dancing in anger. " _Of course_ I'm magic. Did I not magically appear out of the blue, wearing these stupid green breeches and this stupid green coat—which, by the way, were foisted on me by _Rí Séamus_ himself, curse his cold, blue blood. I particularly hate this ensemble; green always makes me look bilious. But that’s beside the point. Here I am, out of the blue, wearing the green and offering you gold. What the bloody hell does that tell you?"

"That you're a bad-tempered, possibly delusional, man with a talent for performing sleight of hand tricks with fake gold coins," suggested Sherlock, smiling down at the rather cute blond.

He had to admit that John was in fact very cute, even his dark-eyed glare was adorable. Yes, Sherlock admitted to himself, that John was just ador…

The cute blond snarled an unintelligible curse then lobbed one of the coins, striking Sherlock in the middle of his forehead. It stung rather a lot.

The cute but bad-tempered man glared darkly at Sherlock. Sherlock thought it was strange that he could tell that John's eyes were blue, even in the dark. It was almost as though the man’s eyes glowed.

He and John stared at one another as if mesmerized.

"Hey, that was s’possed to be _my_ gold coin," protested O'Brian, breaking the spell.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph preserve me," muttered the small, angry man. "Look here," he said walking slowly towards O'Brian. "I have FIVE gold coins, for you Paddy O’Brian."

Sherlock stooped to pick up the coin, which had probably left a bruise on his forehead. Surprisingly, the coin was heavy enough to be real gold, but then the coin could also have been made of lead…well, perhaps lead electroplated with gold.

He couldn’t seem to scratch the gold off, meaning that this was a superior counterfeit. The detective was mildly impressed.

"If you're a leprechaun," Paddy interrupted, his voice thick with greed, "then there should be a whole pot o'coins."

"That's right," said John encouragingly, getting closer and closer to the hulking man.

"No. There's no such thing as a leprechaun, and even if there were, _you_ are clearly not even Irish. Your accent is a bit odd, but I suspect..."

"I said you had a brilliant mind, Sherlock, but I fear that I was wrong," said John, cocking his head to one side. "You actually are an idiot. Here I am, trying to save you. And instead of escaping, you have to argue with me. And that’s in spite of the evidence.”

The detecting genius glowered. No one called him an idiot, especially a clever but deranged Englishman who couldn’t be bothered to mimic an Irish accent in order to improve his disguise.

“Wrong, I am in fact a genius,” began Sherlock.

“No, you’re wrong. All week long _you’ve_ been going around the village, telling everyone to trust the evidence. And now when evidence literally hits you in the face, you ignore it. If you’re so smart, then please explain away this. I appeared, magically, just in time to save you from certain death. I can make gold appear and disappear magically. See, now I have ten coins. Now none. Now a dozen.” Somehow, John made the coins come and go without closing his hand even once. Sherlock was impressed.

“Hey!” cried O’Brian. “Don’ mess with my gold!”

The ersatz leprechaun tossed one of the coins to the gunman, who caught it without lowering his pistol.

“Not to mention that I glow magically,” John continued, ”which I only do to impress cretins like Paddy O’Brian.” The cretin was too absorbed in his glittering piece of gold to take notice of John’s insult. ”It takes a lot of concentration for me to glow like this, and I hope you take note of the effort I’m making to keep Paddy’s attention on me and not you. Which brings me to my most important point. Paddy here wanted to shoot you. He needed to kill you to avoid the tipstaffs but, luckily for you, he’s fallen under the enchantment of the Faerie gold. Meaning that for now at least, he’s forgotten that he wants you dead. No small feat, right? So, _ipso facto_ as m’poor old Latin tutor used to say, I must be magic. In fact, I’m a leprechaun. By the way, _this_ would be an excellent time for you to exeunt, stage right…or left if you prefer. You should certainly go before the gold lust fades.”

"Be that as it may. You are not Irish. If you were Irish, your name would be Eoin or Seán, not John," insisted the consulting detective.

“I said I was a leprechaun; I never claimed to be Irish,” protested the blond. “By Hecate’s hound, it figures that I’d be fated to fall in love with a right stubborn sod who argues every little…”

"Gold, real gold," crowed O' Brian, holding the coin up to the gibbous moon.

"Possibly real gold," interrupted Sherlock, who was tempted to bite the coin in his hand to test its authenticity, irrational though that thought might seem. “I think further testing is in or…”

“Shut up, Sherlock!” hissed John.

"I want the rest of the gold, leprechaun," snarled the gunman.

The gunman pointed his pistol at the shorter man's head, which bothered Sherlock more than it should. He wanted to protect this possibly insane man, with his shining hair and glowing eyes. After all, this John had praised Sherlock’s intelligence and his music, even if he had also called Sherlock an idiot.

And what did John mean by saying that he, ’fell in love’ with Sherlock? That was ridiculous.

“Gimme the gold!” shouted O’Brian.

“Now, settle down, Paddy,” said John soothingly. Then he whispered, “ _Go now, Sherlock. Please go_.”

The wind picked up, tousling the so-called leprechaun’s hair—which wasn't shining so much as it was glowing yellow and gold like the sun and not silver like the moon. This was fascinating, and Sherlock stepped forward to get a better look.

"All right fine. If you won’t run, then I need you to stay back, Sherlock,” commanded John.

“Wait,” said the tall detective, taking another step closer. “I just want…”

“I said, _don’t move_ ,” ordered John.

Sherlock couldn't move his feet. In fact, he couldn’t talk, although he was still breathing. It was irritating and a bit frightening.

"Yeah, stay back; the gold is mine," growled O'Brian.

"Don’t worry about him. He’s not important,” crooned John. “Just concentrate on me.” The glowing blond edged closer and closer to the murder suspect.

How was John glowing? How was he keeping Sherlock from moving? Surely the man wasn’t performing magic. Was he employing some kind of new, experimental drug? And did he understand just how dangerous Patric O’Brian was?

“Here’s more coins, all for you, Paddy. Now, if you want ALL the gold, you’ll have to come with me," said John, holding his hand out to the towering Irishman. "You must take my hand, if you want the gold. You must take my hand of your _own, free will_."

O'Brian dithered, shifting from foot to foot, his gun all but forgotten. Sherlock considered rushing the murder suspect, but since he still couldn’t move his feet or speak, that was moot point.

"Do you want my gold, Patric Seamus O'Brian?" said John grinning broadly, although the smile never reached his eyes.

"Yeahhh," murmured the big Irishman, with a slack-jawed grin.

“Then just take my hand.” The leprechaun held out his left hand full of glowing cold pieces.

O'Brian swiped the coins into his hand and then grabbed John’s maller hand in his huge paw. A green-tinged, golded aura bloomed around the two men, illuminating the Irishman’s tattered jeans and John’s clichéd green leprechaun costume.

John took a deep breath; he cocked his head, looking back at Sherlock with his glowing blue eyes—like the color of the sky at dusk. The wide, insincere smile that he wore for the murderer fell from his face.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes,” said John. “We’ll meet again, if I have any say in it.”

"No, wait," yelled Sherlock, released from his stasis. "Wait, John, wait."

There was a brilliant flash of light, and Sherlock was knocked to the ground by a powerful, yet silent blast.

Sherlock rose up on his elbows, looking for John, looking for O'Brian, looking for storm clouds, because lightning must have just missed him. But there were no clouds, and John had vanished along with Sherlock’s serial murderer.

The consulting detective feared for the charming blond’s safety. Patric O’Brian was still armed and extremely dangerous. And then there was that cliff.

Dear God, had they fallen over the cliff? The detective stood unsteadily and stumbled toward the edge of the cliff.

Three gunshots rang out in quick succession. Followed by a blood-curdling scream, which cut Sherlock to the quick. As best he could tell, the shots and scream had come from the old monastery’s ruins. He tilted his head hoping to hear more, but now the only sounds were those of the wind and waves.

Sherlock ran towards the tumbled stones and teetering walls of the former monastery, heedless of his own danger. Mostly, he wanted to catch the suspect, but he was also a bit worried for John.

Okay, fine. He might as well be honest with himself. He was very worried about John. He _liked_ John—a lot.

The detective tripped over the uneven ground, stubbing his toes on rocks more than once. He only slowed down after he barked his shins against the half-buried remains of a foundation wall and then fell face first into the ground.

For the second time in ten minutes, the lanky detective rose unsteadily to his feet. He scanned the abandoned churchyard, resisting the temptation to call John’s name. Then the bright moonlight revealed a massive body, lying face down on the broken stonework.

Mentally cursing the weeds and masonry blocking his way. The consulting detective hurried over to the nearest body, which belonged to O'Brian.

Just to be safe, Sherlock kicked the gun out O’Brian’s ham-sized fist, and got no response. He knelt in the blood-soaked earth and couldn’t find a pulse. Next he flipped O’Brian over to reveal the end of some metal spike, which stuck out from between O'Brian's ribs.

Sherlock wasn’t normally squeamish, but he found himself stifling a wave of nausea at the macabre sight. Where the hell had the metal blade…call it a bayonet…where had the bayonet come from?

And where was John? Three shots had been fired, presumably all from O’Brian’s gun (the barrel of the pistol was hot and positively reeked of gun powder).

He listened to the sighing wind. Underneath that sound, he heard irregular, raspy breaths. They were coming from the shadows of a looming wall.

John lay crumpled and longer glowing. Sherlock shook his head in sincere, biting regret when he saw the blood seeping out from John’s left shoulder. Oddly, he felt like crying as he lifted the smaller man to search for other wounds. John groaned as soon as he was moved.

"Shhh,” said Sherlock comfortingly. Which was more than a bit out of character, but it seemed strangely appropriate to hold the blond close and run a hand over his cheek in an attempt to ease his pain.

"Mmmmm,” moaned the injured man. “Shush yourself,” grumbled John. "It..it h-hurts."

"I know. It’ll be fine. I'll call for..." Sherlock stopped and frowned; he hadn't been able to get a signal up on the headland, and that was less than a mile away. With one arm, he held the leprechaun…the _pretend_ leprechaun…up against his chest, while he checked his phone. There were no bars at all, which meant he couldn't call for help. But that meant that John might die, which would be terrible! John couldn’t be allowed to die.

"It won’t be fine. I’m bleedin’, and the enchantment isn’t working. It should be healin’,” John stopped and gasped in astonishment. “Ohh! Ohhhh! You have a, a… long distance mobility telephone!" squeaked John. "I been...wantin' one of those for the longest time."

The injured man tried to raise his right arm to reach for the phone.

"Hush, John. Don’t move…uh, save your strength. And let me think..." muttered the overwhelmed detective. He honestly didn’t know what to do now. Obviously he needed to get this man to hospital, but how?

“I’d really like to have…a mobility telephone like that, Sherlock,” John murmured.

“Oh, that’s easy. Paddy shot me…”

“Obviously,” said the detective. “But that’s not what I meant.”

“He shot me when…when the gold…the gold wouldn’t appear. It wouldn’t come when I called it. That’s never happened before,” muttered John shaking his head irritably. “And then Paddy got angry. That boy always did have a vicious temper.”

“Yes. Of course, but the gold never really existed,” murmured Sherlock, who was confused. O’Brian was at least ten years older than John, but then poor, brave John was delusional. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Sherlock felt that he might be able to put up with John’s delusions, if John could put up with Sherlock’s _eccentricities_.

In spite of his injury, John huffed in protest to Sherlock’s assertion, “Yes, it does. It does exist…the gold I mean…and haven’t I been guarding that cursed hoard all this time? And I don’t…m’m…bloody well understand why it’s hiding on me tonight of all nights. I’d blame _Rí Séamus_ , but I’d know if himself was lurking about. Smells like…day old meat, no matter how much he drenches himself…in Frankincense or attar of roses.”

“John, do stop nattering on,” said Sherlock, easing the harshness of his speech by caressing the blond’s face. “I need to think and you need to try to rest.”

“I need…I need to heal…should be able to heal myself…b-but I can’t…and I don’t understand w-why.”

“John, please just be still and save your strength. I’ve no choice. I’ll have to go for help,” said Sherlock, laying the blond back on the ground as gently as possible.

“Ah! No! No, you can’t…m’mm,” moaned John, and clinging with his good hand to the detective’s coat sleeve. “No, you can’t leave. You…Please…don’t leave.”

“Hush. I’ll only be gone a few minutes.” Sherlock lied with a heavy heart. He really, _really_ liked John. He didn’t want to leave him alone now, but he had to get him emergency care. Seeing the small man shiver, Sherlock tore off his heavy wool coat, placing it gently over the blond.

The taller man stared into dark blue eyes then he blinked. Instead of instead of rushing back to the village, which was the only sensible thing to do, he was combing his fingers through John’s short hair.

"I think...that...you're s'posed to kiss me," whispered John.

Now Sherlock still didn’t believe in magic, not really. Not even after John’s admittedly impressive disappearing trick. Still, once you have eliminated the impossible…

Sherlock decided that he was willing to try it, because in spite of John’s madness (which was a very charming lunacy), John was interesting and even likable. There were precious few people that Sherlock found interesting or likable. And no one aside from John had ever been both.

And what could it hurt? Sherlock smiled as he bent down, breathing in John’s scent. The pretend leprechaun smelled of grass and loam, herbs and starlight. No, wait that made no sense at all—how could starlight smell? But it was true nonetheless.

John's eyes glittered in the moonlight, his lips turning up into a half smile.

Sherlock pressed his lips against John's cold lips. He cupped John's face as he placed three more chaste kisses onto John's smiling mouth. He waited for more magic—glowing perhaps? Or that silent blast of power? But nothing happened.

"John…John, nothing's happening."

"Sorry, luv, if I wasn't so tired...I'd make sure...s-sure that somethin' happened…for you.” John managed a rakish wink and a weak chuckle.

"Idiot!" snapped Sherlock, trying not to laugh for fear that it would make him cry. "I thought you meant that if I kissed you then...then..."

"Then what? Then...I'd magically heal?" John made a gasping sound, half-giggle, half-sob. "I…it doesn't…work like that…I, I just wanted a kiss, my love. I wanted to kiss you in case I…well, just in case. I can’t reach the power of the gold. My own is all done it…I’m just so cold…and tired."

Sherlock wanted to cry. He didn't even know this man, but he wanted to know him better and he might not have that chance now.

The World’s Only Consulting Detective wanted to know why John thought he was a leprechaun, and how he had gotten back to the ruins so quickly—because there was no rational explanation for that. He wanted to hear John call him a genius again. He wanted to play his violin for John. He wanted to kiss John again. He wanted John to kiss him back. It was a pity that John wasn’t magical; then he could heal himself magically…

Which was stupid. John wasn’t magic and Sherlock had to get help for the poor man.

“John, I have to go…”

Over the blowing of the wind, the detective heard someone calling his name.

Lestrade. It was Lestrade.

Lestrade must have been searching for Sherlock back at O'Brian's hideout. The DI must have heard the gunfire too.

"Lestrade!" bellowed Sherlock. "Lestrade! Over here. It’s John. He's hurt. Hurry!"

"Hold on, John. Help is coming," Sherlock added, tucking the coat around the other man’s compact form.

"Kay," whispered John, grimacing. Then he forced a crooked smile and rasped, "Since healing is out of the question…m’m…then maybe some first aid would be a good idea? Y-you know…put pressure o-on my wound? To slow down the bleeding, yeah?"

Sherlock cursed himself for a fool before wadding his scarf and pressing down on the wound. John groaned and writhed in pain.

It was intolerable to be the one causing John pain. It was horrible to see this once shining man dimmed and bleeding.

"Sherlock! Who’s John? And…and are you all right?" called the detective inspector. He shambled over, gasping like a bellows. "I heard the gunshots...I called for backup...They'll be here...in a few...Oh shite, who's this then?" Lestrade dropped slowly to his knees, automatically checking the downed man’s pulse.

"This is John, obviously. And he’s clearly alive, so you don’t need to paw at his arm to find his pulse.” Lestrade rolled his eyes. “John saved my life. _That_ ," said Sherlock, pointing to O'Brian's corpse, “That is the worthless scum who shot John!”

Lestrade stared at the body, then began cursing, "Shite, shite, shite… Oh god! A dead suspect and an injured civilian. They’ve been grumbling that I’m outta my jurisdiction and now this! Sherlock, what happened? Did you you shoot O'Brian?”

"Why can’t you use your eyes to properly observe, Lestrade!” said Sherlock, interrupting Lestrades tirade. “Nobody shot O’Brian. I think he fell on a knife, a long blade, maybe a sword...oh, who cares? John needs an ambulance."

"Yeah, well good luck with that. It’s not as though there’re any roads…um, sorry. Not funny. Sorry, um, John, is it?” Lestrade looked down at the bleeding man, shaking his head. “Anyway, as soon as I heard the gunfire, I requested a helicopter and medics..."

John's eyes snapped open. "A helly-choper? One of them whirly-round-and-round flyin' machines? Oh...oh, Sh'lock, I been wantin' to... fly in one of them...for…for years," John whispered breathlessly, as his eyes squeezed shut. "God, Oh God...Sh'lock...it hurts...and…I can’t heal this on m’own…"

“What’s he on about?” demanded Lestrade with a frown.

“Never mind, go examine your serial murderer,” said Sherlock dismissively. Then he continued in a soft, gentle voice, "I know. I know it hurts, John. But…just but stay with me. I think I hear the helicopter now. It'll be here soon," murmured Sherlock. "We'll get you to hospital. You'll be fine. Just stay with me...and you'll be fine."

He tried to smooth away the lines of pain on the leprechaun’s pale, weary face. He bent and soothed John with another kiss.

Lestrade gaped, "Christ...they said this place was enchanted. Now I almost believe it. I mean...you…Sherlock, you’re being…nice. You… kissed him...Wait, are you crying?"

"Shut up, Gavin," the detective snapped. He turned back to his pretend leprechaun; his voice soft and heavy, like a down comforter, "John, I want you to look at me.” Sherlock held the blond’s fading gaze with his own. "That's right. Stay, stay with me, John. Stay with me. Stay..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers magic. John discovers elevators.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my Beta, Old Ping Hai, for editing this chapter. Any remaining errors belong to the leprechaun ;D

**Chapter 2 ******

"But I don't remember it," John said wistfully, "I don't remember riding in the whirly-round-and-round. It doesn't seem fair, not remembering my first time in a flying machine."

"It was dark. You wouldn't have been able to see anything, anyway," said the tired consulting detective, instinctively grasping the blond's hand.

“The problem was that I was asleep, not that it was dark,” insisted John.

Sherlock squeezed his hand again. Oddly, John brought out Sherlock’s kinder, more protective side. Not that Sherlock had ever noticed this side to his personality before.

Sherlock kissed the blond on his forehead before saying, “You were not asleep; you were unconscious from loss of blood.”

“Well, if you’re going to get all pragmatic…” grumbled John, although he readily leaned into the kiss. “It’s still very unfair. And I think the opium was more to blame than the blood loss.”

Sherlock made a tch’ing sound of exasperation. John was inexplicably fascinating and undeniably attractive, but he was also frustrating and willfully obtuse. For instance, who else would insist on calling morphine opium? Who else made up words like whirly-rounds? Or repeatedly denied the severity of their own injury?

Well, Sherlock himself had been guilty of ignoring his wounds in the past, so perhaps he was overreacting.

“…and I missed everything exciting because of the opium…”

“Morphine,” corrected Sherlock.

“Yes, all right. Morphine. I know. I’ve read about it. But whether we call it morphine or opium, the damned drug made me miss _everything_! I missed flying in the whirly helly-chopper. I missed out on surgery, and I had been so looking forward to seeing the operating theater. I missed the magnetizing resonating imaging thingy—and they still haven’t brought me the pictures that they took of my insides. They promised that I could see my Miri pictures…”

“M.R.I. images,” corrected the detective.

John’s eyes narrowed in mirrored irritation. “M.R.I. Fine…but Miri sounds nicer. And I want to see my innards from the _Miri_.”

Stubborn. John Watson was the poster boy for stubborn, thought the detective. In order to avoid another argument, Sherlock decided to distract the blond.

“At least you were able to see your x-rays, John,” Sherlock reminded him, while gesturing towards the films.

The consulting detective had managed to snatch the X-rays from the nurse’s station but had failed in his attempt to steal the MRI films from the radiology suite. That radiology tech had been surprisingly observant and unnecessarily rude. Fortunately, Sherlock had managed to evade hospital security _that_ time.

“Yes, that’s true,” said John, brightening up. “And don’t think that I’m ungrateful. It was excellent how you stole my X-ray pictures without using any magic at all.”

“Borrowed, John,” said Sherlock with a smile, and ignoring the reference to magic. “They are only borrowed. I will need to return them eventually.”

“Yes, of course, but the borrowed X-rays are fascinating to study. Imagine, seeing the ligatures and clips that are inside my wound,” John sighed, holding one of the pilfered X-rays back up to the light. “See that? That callus is from the broken rib that I had, last summer I think. X-rays are amazing. They’re better than magic. I’d say it was almost worth getting shot just to be able to see what doctors can do nowadays.”

The brunet sighed; John kept saying inexplicable things like that. He was a puzzle that even Sherlock Holmes could not unravel—yet.

Today was the first day that John was not snowed under by medications, and Sherlock had hoped for some reasonable explanations about what had happened the night John had been shot—or anything to do with John really.

However, John continued to claim that he was a leprechaun even if he wasn’t Irish—and that he could do magic, when he wasn’t quite tired—and that he and Sherlock had to keep an eye out for fairies.

Naturally, the physicians thought John was delusional and probably psychotic. Sherlock disagreed. The blond didn’t act deranged—aside from his magic leprechaun fancy.

Then too, John _had_ recklessly risked his life to save Sherlock, which was arguably the act of a madman. Plus John thought that Sherlock was amazing and brilliant, when everyone else thought Sherlock was a freak—many people would consider that fact alone to be diagnostic of serious mental illness.

Sherlock wasn’t sure why the slightly older blond thought he was a leprechaun, but John was definitely not psychotic. Personally, Sherlock found the so-called leprechaun to be the sanest man he’d ever met. It didn’t hurt that the blond was handsome, brave and very loyal very quickly.

Sherlock freely admitted that he liked John. He liked John a lot. He liked John more than anyone he’d ever met (which wasn’t saying much, since the consulting genius didn’t like anyone—aside from John).

Sherlock had begun to like John minutes after meeting him. It had been terrible watching helplessly as the man who saved Sherlock slowly bled out. Even after the medics arrived, it had been touch and go. Then there was the waiting—waiting while John was in surgery. Then more waiting while John was in recovery, and even _more_ waiting—nearly two hours of waiting—because the injured man had been unconscious or high as a kite from his pain medication.

Obviously, John did not have any tolerance for opiates (which ruled out opiate addiction as the cause of John’s fantasies), and the idiot doctors persisted on overdosing the injured man for nearly two days.

Throughout it all, Sherlock had waited with as much patience as he could summon. He only succeeded because for some reason he had to remain near John. Indeed, the consulting hadn’t left his new friend’s side for more than a few minutes.

Perhaps _friend_ didn’t quite encompass everything John was becoming to him.

John stopped talking, shifted and then grimaced in pain as he tried to reach a cup of water. Sherlock leapt up to assist his injured _friend_. He smiled at John (Sherlock’s face hurt from all the smiling that he did for John). He handed John the cup of ice water and made sure that the pillows properly supported his _friend’s_ back.

John smiled at him, and Sherlock preened under the other man’s sunny regard.

Perhaps attachment and concern didn’t properly describe Sherlock’s burgeoning feelings for his _more-than-friend_. Infatuation hit nearer the mark.

Sherlock had refused to leave John’s room even at night, managing to circumvent the persistent nursing staff and laughable security guards.

Infatuation might not be the right word either. Sherlock felt that he might be obsessed with his so-called leprechaun, and he was fine with this—even if it was completely out-of-character.

Lestrade, however, was not fine with Sherlock’s newfound attachment/infatuation/obsession.

Over the past three days, Lestrade had expressed his _deep concern_ at Sherlock's sudden interest John, whom Lestrade stupidly considered a virtual stranger.

Lestrade had stubbornly fixated on the fact there were no records for John Watson. Oh there were lots of records for lots of John Watsons, but none of them fit _this_ John Watson. Naturally, the DI was suspicious, whereas Sherlock was only intrigued.

_This_ John Watson blithely explained his lack of paperwork on the fact that he’d been residing in fairyland for the past two hundred years, aside from sporadic visits to Éire to check on his buried treasure. John helpfully added that passports were not required when traveling between Éire and fairyland.

The discussion had gone downhill from there. Lestrade accused John of being a pathological liar or a raving lunatic—or both. Sherlock threatened to tell Mycroft that Lestrade had a crush on the pompous bureaucrat. Lestrade was going to call for a psych evaluation. Sherlock was going to call Lestrade’s wife to repeat his earlier allegation. Lestrade was going to contact local immigration authorities _and_ the British Home Office.

John was going to curse the detective inspector with boils just as soon as he regained his strength. This threat had effectively silenced both of the detectives, who stared at the darkly glowering blond.

At this point, the first nurse entered the fray, loudly demanding that everyone leave the room.

John had taken this literally, crawled out of bed and shuffled painfully toward the door only to collapse dramatically into Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock didn’t mind holding his more-than-friend, in fact he enjoyed it immensely. However he did feel that John would benefit from acting lessons. Honestly, who put their hand to their forehead before they ‘almost fainted’? And who winked in the middle of an attack of lightheadedness?

The act fooled everyone aside from Sherlock. Chaos ensued. Nurses, aides and an intern flocked to John’s room, all of them fussing over the wounded blond and turning rather viciously on both Sherlock and Lestrade. The two detectives were blamed for upsetting ‘puir Mr. Watson’, ‘disrupting’ the hospital’ and ‘getting in the way’. Sherlock angrily suspected that he was ‘getting in the way’ of the nurses’, aides’ and intern’s desires to flirt with John.

For some reason, it took two nurses, three nurses aides and the intern to assist one fairly ambulatory patient back into bed— then arrange his pillows, tuck in his blankets, freshen his water, adjust the telly, finally vying for the honor of bringing the ‘puir man’ fresh hot tea, biscuits and today’s newspaper.

The intern scored the most points by promising to bring John his own copies of the MRIs just as soon as rounds concluded. John had smiled winsomely at the intern after that, which infuriated Sherlock.

Lestrade and Sherlock had called an immediate albeit temporary truce. (Lestrade wanted to avoid a diplomatic incident. Sherlock couldn’t afford to be thrown out of the hospital again. Not when two nurses, three aides and an intern all had designs on his John.)

Towards the end, the ersatz leprechaun had been all smiles until the head nurse once again insisted that John’s friends leave for the day. The blond pouted outrageously and agreed to stay in bed only if his friend, Sherlock, could remain with him, saying only Sherlock made John feel safe, John needed Sherlock, like fish needed water or salamanders needed fire.

To emphasize his point, the blond had once again thrown the back of his hand to his forehead, fluttering his eyelids melodramatically. On cue, Sherlock caught the supposedly swooning leprechaun. Much to the detective’s astonishment, he gullible nursing staff (plus one intern) fell for this bit of very bad acting. Sherlock was allowed to remain, while Lestrade was shown the door. All in all, Sherlock counted the event as a win for him and a loss for a certain rather annoying detective inspector.

“I _stil_ l don’t think it’s fair," said John, interrupting Sherlock’s introspection.

The lanky brunet blinked at the man who looked a bit like a grumpy hedgehog, which is to say, he looked adorable.

The fact that Sherlock Holmes found another person adorable was unprecedented—perhaps indicative of brain malfunction. After all, Sherlock didn’t like anyone, and he never used the word _adorable_. This change in his personality should have worried the detective.

But it didn’t alarm Sherlock, who was feeling a bit happy about it all. (This in itself, should be a red flag cried his logical side, sounding suspiciously Mycroft-ish).

Sherlock, ignoring the red flag, only hummed, “Hm?”

"I said that it's unfair that I missed it all."

‘Oh, that,’ thought Sherlock. John was being repetitious and just a tiny bit boring. Still, even when he was boring, John was adorable.

Nevertheless, it wouldn’t hurt to change the subject and pursue some more interesting topic, perhaps even discover some answers.

“…you weren’t here. You said you’d gone to get coffee, although I know that you were really smoking tobacco. Anyway, I wanted to try to insert the Intravenous Catheter myself, but Sister refused and…”

"John?"

“…since I didn’t want to upset her, I let her insert the plastique cannula into my hand…”

“John!”

"What?" asked John, blinking his gorgeous blue eyes at Sherlock.

"You must have flown before this," said Sherlock. "When you were a doctor in the army?"

"No…wait…how d’you know I was in the army?"

"Easy. The way you wear your hair. The way you stand. The way you talk when you're angry. Your body told me that you've seen your share of fighting."

John raised his eyebrows.

"Your scars?" said the detective. "There is a scar from a large caliber bullet wound in your right thigh."

"You were looking at my thighs?" asked John, waggling his brows salaciously.

Really, this man was too adorable for this world, thought Sherlock.

"And there are other scars, most probably from some kind of a blade, on your arm and on your chest," continued the brunet, leaning back in the bedside chair, "And numerous smaller scars, which I have yet to properly identify and catalogue. Of, course I haven’t even seen your backside."

“Ohh! Do you want to see my backside?” John asked.

“John, really, can you not stay on topic?” queried Sherlock, blushing because of course he’d like to view John’s backside.

“Oh, right. Well, those deductions were brilliant! The arm and chest wounds were from a bronze knife and sword respectively,” said John. "And as you deduced, m'leg wound was caused by a Yankee musket ball. I used to keep it in a jar as a souvenir."

Sherlock raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"The musket ball, I kept it as a souvenir," said John, misinterpreting the eyebrow and smiling affectionately.

Obviously, John could not been shot by a musket-wielding American. However, the detective decided not to question John’s assertion—primarily because he didn’t want to see the blond’s smile fade.

"As for doctor, one only has to watch how you study the various instruments and the other doctors. And I must confess that you rather showed your hand when you were under the effect of the opium…”

“You mean morphine,” John corrected, with a smug nod.

Sherlock winced at his own slip but continued, “…of the _morphine_. You babbled about the incoming wounded, a boy who needed an amputation, and you asked your nurse for a scalpel.”

“Ah, that would do it…But, my army days are ancient history,” said John, smiling that smile which made his face glow and lit a fire in Sherlock's chest. "It’s amazing how you deduced all that, though. Just extraordinary. You got almost everything right.”

The brunet frowned. “What did I get wrong?”

“This isn’t how I wore my hair in the army,” said John. “I only began wearing it like this much later.”

Sherlock smiled, imagining John with a military buzz cut. Then he imagined John with a buzz cut—without clothes, revealing his backside. He was so busy imaging the blond coyly looking over his bare shoulder, that he nearly missed John’s next statement.

“…that was almost as amazing as the time when you assaulted that baker to make him talk about his cousin Paddy."

"I did not assault anyone..."

"You verbally assaulted him. You wiped his eye, and no mistake!" said John with a wheezy giggle. "You told him his wife was cheating on him with the dog catcher!"

"Ah…that. It was obvious. She was wearing an expensive, new outfit more suitable to a twenty-year old than a woman of forty-three or perhaps forty-four. In addition, the skirt and jacket were covered in dog hair from no less than three different dog species. No woman would wrestle with three different dogs while wearing the latest in haute couture; no, the hair was transferred to her clothing when she embraced her lover—had she embraced her spouse, she would have had flour on her clothing. So, she had a young lover with a penchant for wrestling with dogs—the village's twenty-something dog catcher."

"It wasn't obvious to me."

Sherlock smiled proudly and then frowned.

"How would you know? You weren't there!"

"I _was_ there," insisted the former soldier. "Once I realized that you were tracking down a murderer, I started following. I was fascinated as I watched your methods. You were the most interesting thing to come to that part of County Clare in a hundred years."

"John, I think I'd remember if you were there or not."

"Not if you couldn't see me," said John, wearing a half-smile. "Magic, remember?"

"I suppose…you could have been…eavesdropping; although I’m not sure how you got inside the back of the bakery. Unless perhaps the baker himself told you..."

"Sherlock," sighed John. "You really need to understand the truth about me."

"Finally!" exclaimed the consulting detective. "I have eight theories. The most likely one is that you are suffering from PTSD."

"Unplug the heartbeat monitoring thingy," John ordered, as he pulled the wires off his chest. The detective quickly unplugged the monitor before it could scream in protest (and then bring in the flock of nurses, aides and that pushy intern). Then John ripped out his IV catheter.

"John, what are you doing?"

"Shite! That hurt! And look at it bleed," exclaimed John, dabbing at the blood seeping from his vein. "I didn’t realize it would do that…but now that I think about it, of course it would bleed. It's like when I used to bleed my patients to balance their humors. Oh blast, it's not even my own blood, is it? It's some stranger's blood that you let them transfer into me, when I was unconscious. Now that I think on it, I’m not sure if I like these ivy things, especially these modern blood transfers; they're unnatural. I mean, whose blood is this? Over the years, I read about these blood transfers in some the journals that made their way into the village, but I'm not sure if I trust 'em."

“What?”

“The blood transfers, not the journals,” said John, not clarifying anything at all.

"John, is there some point to all this?"

"Yes. No more ivy blood for me. And you've got to understand that I'm magic.”

“John…”

“But I can see that you won't believe in magic until I shove your nose in it," said John. "Right. Now call the nurse, with that special button."

Sherlock had appropriated the call button, since he was the one constantly calling the nurses on John's behalf. Sherlock was not popular with the nursing staff.

"John, don't be absurd."

"Fine," said John, grimacing with pain as he crawled off the bed to grab the call button away from Sherlock.

"John, stop it. You'll hurt yourself!" snapped Sherlock, pulling the blond into his lap. "Idiot! I'm calling the nurse."

"Yes. Do that. Call the nurse. But try to act surprised, like you don't know where I am," John whispered conspiratorially, before muttering, "Damn, it really does hurt."

Sherlock pressed the nurse-call button repeatedly, while hugging the slightly crazy but oh-so-desirable blond.

A nurse responded almost immediately, having learned not to ignore Sherlock Holmes.

"What is it now, Mr. Holmes?" said the harried nurse, before she even opened the door. The plump brunette entered the room, exuding impatience, even as she forced a smile onto her face (no doubt for John). "Really, Mr. Holmes! Puir Mr. Watson is such a lamb, but you keep..."

She stopped in the doorway; her jaw dropped and her eyes were wide as saucers. She looked at Sherlock, with his arms full of John. Then she looked at the empty bed, the IV dripping on the floor, then back to Sherlock, her mouth moving stupidly, yet saying nothing.

Just like a cow chewing her cud, thought Sherlock irritably.

She darted into the attached bathroom, for no apparent reason.

The detective thought that she was rather overdoing the whole 'stupid surprised cow' thing.

"John wouldn't listen to me," complained Sherlock, trying not to be distracted by John nuzzling his neck. "He got out of bed..."

"Why didn't you call me at once!" screeched the nurse." He can't have gotten far. I'll call security..."

She stampeded out of the room.

"Did you _see_ her _face_?" squeaked the blond, who was trying to hold in his glee.

John’s sparkling eyes and broad grin lit up the room. He really did look a little like a mischievous leprechaun.

"John, I don't understand."

" _She_ can't see me now. _No one_ can! Only you," whispered John.

"How...how..." stuttered the pale detective.

John punched Sherlock's shoulder surprisingly hard, and whispered, " _Magic_. I’m finally getting a bit of my strength back; already I can call on my minor magics."

The nurse, her supervisor, and an aide stampeded back into the room. Sherlock wondered where the others were.

"When did Mr. Watson leave?" "Where was he going?" “Did you argue with him too? "Why didn't you call us sooner!" they demanded. These questions were followed by many more, none of which Sherlock answered to their satisfaction. He glanced down at the squirming man sitting on his lap and then at the growing flock of nurses, none of whom could see John.

Sherlock affected a casual pose, carefully setting his hands on his knees, allowing his left arm to brace the leprechaun.

The herd of medical specialists soon gave up on Sherlock (but only after the doughty intern looked in the tiny closet); they soon charged off in search of one John Watson, with the assistance of two late-arriving security guards.

John, clad only in his skimpy hospital gown, wiggled in Sherlock's lap, which the younger man found arousing—inappropriately arousing, because John was injured. Even Sherlock knew that he couldn’t make love to a recently injured man—magical or otherwise.

To stifle his inconvenient ardor, Sherlock tried to imagine Lestrade on a date with Mycroft.

" _Now_ do you believe in magic?" demanded John smugly.

"I am willing to _temporarily_ suspend my disbelief," Sherlock replied stiffly. In his mind’s eye, the detective imagined Mycroft eating cake while Lestrade tossed back a pint of ale—cheap ale. “And shouldn’t you keep your voice down?”

“Nah, no one else can hear me right now,” said John. “You know, you’re a verrrry stubborn man. But a very handsome one…very kissable…you don’t mind me kissing you, do you?"

The improbable leprechaun played with the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, while placing kisses along and then under Sherlock's never-ending jaw line.

John moved up to kiss Sherlock’s lips, and the fantasy about Mycroft imploded, leaving icing and cake crumbs all over the detective’s mind palace.

Restraint was stupid, Sherlock decided, cradling the leprechaun’s face in one long-fingered hand—the better to direct John’s face to one side—the better to kiss those expressive lips.

“Mm,” John agreed, parting his lips so that his tongue could dart out.

Sherlock’s tongue met him halfway and they traded tastes and breaths. John tasted of tea and fresh herbs and sunlight. Sherlock did not discount tasting sunlight, because John had just performed some very credible magic.

And John’s very lips were magic—soft and sweet like honey. Sherlock’s hand strayed south, caressing the leprechaun’s sturdy neck and manly shoulders. His fingers slipped over gauze and tape…the wound!

‘ _Restrain yourself, brother_!’ said Mycroft from the depths of Sherlock’s mind palace.

Damn it! John was injured! He’d needed two blood transfusions and endless rounds of medications and fluids. His wound had barely started to heal. He still had a drain…

“Mm, don’t stop Sh’lock,” John murmured against the younger man’s lips.

"John, this is very…lovely, but perhaps your timing..."

this time I do believe something is happening.” The blond’s good hand dove south, nearly reaching Sherlock’s unrestrained arousal. But the detective was faster.

" _Nothing_ can happen, John, not until your wound has healed,’ said Sherlock, keeping John hand in his grip.

John looked stricken. "Sherlock! Without magic it could take ages to heal! Be reasonable, we have to snatch our happiness while we can. You know, _carpe diem_ , as my old tutor used to say.”

"While it is oddly titillating to be seduced by a half-naked, randy, English-born leprechaun who quotes Horace at me, I must insist that you return to bed..."

"Nope!" said John. "I can't lie around here like a sitting duck, waiting for the Fae to hunt me down. There just isn’t time."

"But…but you did have time to seduce me?” said Sherlock, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, yeah. Our love was destined, but I’ve been waiting for so very long, and I almost gave up. But the Crone, as usual, was right, and here you are. And I love you even more than I thought I would. Of course I didn’t know you were going to be a bloody genius,” said John. “Besides, have you ever looked into a mirror? I thought we had just enough time to get to know one another, before I had to run for my life.”

“That is the most illogical, capricious reasoning that I’ve ever heard,” announced Sherlock.

"I'm a leprechaun. I'm supposed to be capricious," said the blond seriously. "Are you sure we can’t just…just…I mean perhaps a quick…” John faltered under Sherlock’s cold gaze. “Right. Well, if I can't tempt you into taking me to bed, then I suppose we should concentrate on escaping."

“Escaping from whom—exactly? And I hope you were exaggerating about running for your life, because you are in no condition to run.”

“Welllll,” said John curling into the taller man’s chest. “I’ve been thinking.”

“You’ve been heavily sedated, your thinking cannot have been very clear,” said Sherlock.

“I haven’t had any opium…um, morphine since yesterday. The last three doses went into the bed instead of my arm.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “How is that possible? I’ve been right here each time.”

“Well, I made the tubing unseen and…”

“Magic!”

“Yes. Magic. I’m a leprechaun, and I’m magical,” said John with a huff. “Granted, my magic was drained a bit from the other night; however it is coming back—slowly but surely as they say. I certainly have enough magic to make a bit of tubing go unseen…”

“But it was attached to the catheter!”

“Oh, well the one end went into the bed unseen and then I had the dummy end still sticking into the ivy…”

“That makes no sense!” snapped the detective.

“It does to me.”

“Without the morphine you’ll be in pain! You’re probably in pain right now.”

“I’ve been part of _Rí Séamus’s_ court for a very long time, Sherlock. Believe me when I tell you that I’m used to pain, and this is nothing,” said John, waving his good hand at his shoulder.

“You mean you don’t feel pain?”

“Well of course I feel it,” said John. “I’ve simply had to learn to ignore it. I know I wasn’t very good at ignoring it the other night, and I apologize for whinging so much. I think the shock of the wound and the rather large amount of bleeding, coupled with the sudden absence of the gold’s enchantment, might have overset my mind. Again, my apologies for fussing like a callow drummer boy.”

Sherlock was confused by the reference to a drummer boy, thinking about one of Mummy’s favorite Christmas carols. He shook his head to clear it of this unwanted reference. As soon as the considered it, he was appalled by John’s matter-of-fact acceptance of pain. Surely he didn’t expect Sherlock to _accept_ his apologies for the few times that he complained about pain? After being shot?

“Are you angry with me?” asked John, biting his lip. “I know it’s unseemly to whinge…”

“Who said you aren’t supposed to complain about pain?” snarled Sherlock. “Who the hell is this Séamus person, and what the hell did he do to you?”

“You are angry.”

“Angry at the thought of someone hurting you, yes,” snapped the detective, squeezing the other man in his arms protectively. “And frankly annoyed that you’d think that I’d be angry because you happen to mention that you were in excruciating pain from a nearly fatal gunshot to the shoulder!”

John’s face crinkled like an accordion. “Sooo, you’re angry, because I thought you’d be angry and…”

“Never mind! I am not angry with you, though I am confused.”

“Thennn, if you’re not angry with me, you won’t mind if I mention that while I like it when you hug me…right now, it’s maybe a bit too tight,” ventured John cautiously.

The younger man immediately loosened his grip, “Shite! Yes, I mean, no. I mean, you should tell me!” stuttered Sherlock. In spite of his genius, he found it very hard to follow the leprechaun’s reasoning.

“Well then…”

“John, be quiet.”

John’s mouth snapped shut.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Sherlock.

John nodded.

“And I don’t want you to be in pain.”

John nodded a bit more slowly.

“And I’ve just realized that if you tampered with the IV’s, you probably haven’t been getting your antibiotics.”

The leprechaun pursed his lips. He nodded, then shook his head, then his face crinkled accordion-style again.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, John. You _can_ talk _nooow_ ,” said Sherlock.

“I made sure that the Intravenous Catheters dispensed the antibiotics into my blood,” said John a tad self-righteously. “I’ll have you know that I am a respected healer both here and in the Otherworlds. Actually, disconnecting and reconnecting the tubings was fairly easy once I could be unseen. Or rather make the tubings unseen, which is actually much harder, because they aren’t me.”

"That’s very…um, good, John. Now, you haven’t answered my real question,” said the detective, tabling the discussion of disappearing tubing in favor of discussing the threat.

“What? What question was that?”

“Who is going to hunt you down?”

“I tried to answer and you said I couldn’t think because of the medicaments and I said…”

“Who? You said the fay? You mean faeries like you?” asked Sherlock.

“I am most certainly _not_ a bloody Faerie,” replied John, sitting stiffly and looking very affronted. “You could possibly call me a sprite, although that sounds a bit missish, if you ask me. I prefer the term leprechaun. Yeah. I'm a leprechaun. But the ones hunting for me are the Fae or Faeries. And they're magic people, innately magic. Some of them are a bit not nice. The Fae imprisoned me and gave me those knife wounds, because…well, there were a couple of misunderstandings."

"Misunderstandings?"

"Yes," said John. "But back to the Faeries, now that the curse is broken…"

"Which curse exactly?" asked the detective.

"I was cursed to guard Faerie gold..."

"Because you're a leprechaun?"

"Nooo," said John, tilting his head. "I was taken by the Faeries to settle a blood debt, which meant I was supposed to be killed. But the King claimed me, so they didn't burn me alive. I never understood the reasoning behind burning a man to death to repay a _blood_ debt, but anyway, they didn't kill me at all. Instead, the King cursed me to guard a hoard of gold, which effectively _made_ me a leprechaun."

"I see."

"No, you don't; you have that pinched look on your face. But maybe you could just pretend that you believe me for now," said John, reaching up to comb his sturdy fingers through Sherlock's hair. The detective found it very soothing. "See, the King, _Rí Séamus_ , became obsessed with me. And the King decided to keep me pretty much forever, and he tied me to the treasure…it was his way of showing his love for me," said John with heavy irony. "He had some other ways to show his love, which led to those misunderstandings, but alls well that ends well."

“Did it end well?” growled Sherlock.

“Yes, I’d say so. I remained a virgin…well, not a virgin-virgin, but a virgin…you know,” said John vaguely. “And we got on all right after I reattached three of _Rí Séamus’s_ fingers reattached, although I switched two of them around accidentally on purpose. It helped that I healed his champion too, thought I had help…”

“What?”

"But, to answer your question," began John.

“Finally!”

“The Fae will be coming.”

“Because…”

“As I said before, I was thinking,” John paused as if expecting Sherlock to interrupt. In fact, an interruption was on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue but he managed to restrain himself.

"Right. I was thinking that first of all, I am—or was—tied to the Faerie gold by the King’s curse,” explained John.

“Being ‘tied to the gold’ means what?” asked Sherlock, with narrowed eyes.

“It means that I could only travel about twenty miles away from the gold. After that, the curse would try to stop me.”

“Stop you how?”

“By ripping my open my chest to where my heart should have been, except that _Rí Séamus_ had taken my heart and replaced it with his curse. In retrospect, not everything ended entirely well,” John muttered.

The World’s Only Consulting Detective gaped like any common idiot.

“But that’s impossi…”

“Yes, well…lots of impossible things happen around Faeries…and leprechauns for that matter,” said John. “It would bother most people, but you’re not most people.”

Sherlock nodded. He wasn’t most people, and he wasn’t immune to flattery (at least not immune to leprechaun flattery). Naturally, he could come to grips with magic.

“Besides, you’d have to be willing to tolerate magic if you were my soul mate,” said John. “And you are my soul mate, so you won’t mind a bit of magic—probably.” John worried his lip with his teeth.

“Of course, you don’t _have_ to throw your lot in with me,” continued John. “You do have free will. Even leprechauns have free will, especially if they’re willing to use their knuckles or any knives that might be lying about. Look, what I’m trying to say is that I hope you choose me, Sherlock Holmes, just like I chose you. I think that it was choosing you that broke the curse and freed me from the treasure—almost killing me at the same time.”

“You aren’t making much sense, John,” complained Sherlock, who was pleased that John chose him, but who didn’t understand anything about this curse. Sherlock hated not understanding something. “The treasure…it’s the gold that you promised to O’Brian?”

“Exactly! And it’s buried near the old monastery. Of all the boring places to bury gold! I would have faded away like a specter on the wind if I hadn’t met some ghosts and made friends with a few of the villagers…”

“So the curse meant you had to remain near the gold,” said Sherlock, trying to keep the leprechaun on topic.

"Yes. I had to be near the gold at all times, in case someone tried to steal it—so the twenty-mile limit. Within that limit, and in order to protect the gold, I could Travel to the treasure instantly…”

“THAT’S how you disappeared with O’Brian!”

“Yes. I took him to the treasure. It was the last time that I could touch the gold’s enchantment,” said John.

“No matter where you are, you can fly back to the gold?” asked Sherlock.

“I don’t fly; don’t be ridiculous. But I was able to Travel to the treasure,” explained John. “The gold is enchanted and exists in both Faerie and Éire, which is how I could travel between worlds. Mostly I stayed in Faerie; not by choice, mind you, but _Rí Séamus_ was most insistent.”

“And this magical treasure trove is buried in a cast iron pot, on supposedly hallowed ground,” Sherlock skeptically.

“Well of course the monastery wasn't there when the Faeries first buried the gold...which I think was thousands of years ago—not in Faerie time of course," said John. "And the gold is in a clay pot, not an iron pot, because they can't abide iron."

"I see." Sherlock didn’t see.

"I can tolerate iron because I'm a leprechaun. This of course proves that I’m not a Faerie. That and my blood isn’t blue."

"Yes."

“John, I don’t understand why we’re taking about your pot of gold at all. I wanted to know about the people who’ll be hunting you.”

"The point, Sherlock, is that I was bound by the gold and so trapped either in Faerie or in that small bit of County Clare for a very long time. I couldn’t stray more than twenty or so miles from the gold, not ever. But I am more than twenty miles from the gold now, aren’t I?"

"We’re nearly sixty miles from the village," Sherlock confirmed.

"Right. Sixty miles. Well I shouldn't be able to be here, unless I was dead with my chest ripped open or if the curse was broken. I'm not dead, and my chest isn’t ripped open…aside from Paddy’s bullet wound…so that means the curse is broken. The King will know that the curse is broken. He’ll feel it. He won't be happy either, so he’ll be sending someone to collect me. Probably his champion. Maybe some knights. So the Fae will be coming.”

"They’ll take you back to _fairy land_.”

“Yes,” said John. “If they catch me.”

"I won't allow it," asserted Sherlock.

"That's very brave. You are so smart and brave …and handsome," said John approvingly, as he smoothed dark curls off Sherlock's forehead. "You are so amazingly wonderful. But I’m not sure whether you can fight against faerie warriors. They’re powerful, and they cheat dreadfully.”

“I shall endeavor to hold on to what is mine,” said Sherlock firmly. He then blinked. Had he really just laid claim to John Watson?

Short answer: yes. And Sherlock decided that he meant it too.

“Look, Sherlock. I’m in no condition to battle even an itinerant faerie that spins tales and fortunes by the roadside, let alone the king’s champion. And you don’t have so much as a steel dirk on you. So, I think it's best if we avoid fighting for now and leave here sooner rather than later, which is a shame because Hospital is a marvelous place. I mean look what they can do nowadays: X-rays and Miris and ivies…and the food here is delicious, especially the colorful, fruit-flavored gelatins. But, needs must."

John stood and began hobbling toward the door.

"John, even if you're invisible..."

"Unseen..."

"...you won't get far with that injury."

"Yes, you might be right," agreed the leprechaun, leaning against the doorjamb with a frown.

"I could call my brother," offered Sherlock.

"Oh no, luv! I know you don't like calling him because he's fat, nosey and bossy."

"How do you know that?"

"I heard you tell that inspector fellow. You said that you didn't want to call your brother because he was fat, nos…"

"I assume that you were lurking about 'unseen'."

"Yes," confessed John. "But I wasn't lurking. I was watching…"

"It's fine, John. I don't mind. Clearly anyone stuck for more than a day in those wretched ruins and that dreadful little village would have been bored and desperate for distraction," said Sherlock, waving his hand about.

"Exactly!" cried John. "And I was stuck there for a very long time. It was terribly dull most of the time. And Faerie was even worse…Until you came to hunt down that miscreant O'Brien, and you were so bloody brilliant that I couldn't help but watch and admire you. And fall in love with you over and over again."

The sprite beamed at Sherlock, who smiled back at John's unadulterated admiration and affection.

“Was that before or after you realized we were predestined to be romantically involved.”

“ _Romantically involved_!” John sighed. “That sounds so…romantic. Anyway, I started to fall in love first, which was a bit unexpected, given that I didn’t have a heart anymore. But, once I realized that I was falling in love, I remembered that the Crone said I’d fall in love with someone tall, dark and handsome. I’d never thought much about that prediction, since every seer I’ve ever met tells everyone that they’re going to fall in love with someone tall, dark and handsome. But the Crone is _The Crone_ and not just some gypsy wearing an embroidered shawl…”

Sherlock's attention and smile faded as he remembered that John was in danger from some kind of fairy attack. Yet John was still recovering from his bullet wound and wasn't fit for travel. Indeed, the blond shouldn't even be walking around—amend that, hobbling around.

"I've thought of another option," said John, who refused to get back into bed. "How would you like to meet a witch?"

"Why?" asked Sherlock, pressing his lips together.

"I learned healing from the Fay. I'm very good at it, maybe because I was an army doctor, like you guessed."

"I never guess."

"The _point_ , Sherlock, is that I am a healer, but I can't actually heal _myself_ —not without a power source, like the gold. But Mary is a witch, and a damn fine healer, and she'll heal me...unless she's in a bad mood."

"How do you propose we leave the building?" asked Sherlock, taking everything John said at face value—for now. “Thanks to your stunt, everyone is already looking for you. Not to mention you are also a material witness to a mysterious death…”

“Ohhh, am I a murder suspect?” asked John.

“No. Manslaughter possibly, but in any case, the police won’t want you to leave until after they’ve questioned you. Then there’s the matter of a pending psychiatric consult, which the head nurse demanded…”

“Ohhhh, they think I’m a crazed murder suspect!” cried John, looking strangely pleased. “I wish I could stay after all. But…no. The Faeries will be coming for me soon, so it’s best to keep on the move until I can be properly healed. Not that I don’t appreciate the modern methods of healing. I do. I realize that they saved my life, but they take so long.”

“John, you do rattle on.” The leprechaun’s jaw snapped shut again. “We’ll be stopped if we just try to leave…” Sherlock’s voice tapered off as he considered their options, tapping his finger against his lips.

"Look, it shouldn’t be too hard. You’re very clever and I’m recovered enough to easily remain unseen," urged John, eyeing the window uneasily. “And I really think the sooner we leave, the better.”

“You’ve seen something.”

“Um…Yes. Crows; storm crows in fact.”

“You’re afraid of birds?”

“No,” cried John, raising his brows in outrage. “Though a murder of crows could poke your eyes out; I’ve seen it happen. But no, I’m worried because now the crows have found me, they’ll tell _Rí Séamus_ , and he’ll send…”

“John, sit down before you fall down,” instructed the detective. It was hard to credit anything John said, but for some reason, he believed the leprechaun. Furthermore, the sprite’s unease appeared to be contagious, and Sherlock wanted leave the hospital immediately. “I have to find you something more to wear…at least a pair of trousers. Sit and stay invisible…”

“Unseen.”

“Fine. Stay _unseen_. I’ll be back in less than ten minutes,” said Sherlock, hurrying out the door.

Sherlock was back in seven, and he didn’t have to tap his genius to escape. He merely had to be a good liar (which he was) and very patient (which was very, very difficult).

Before he could depart with his unseen companion, the head nurse stopped him, subjecting him to several tedious minutes of stern questioning. This was followed by even more tedious questioning from a red-faced administrator’s assistant (whose main concern was insulating the hospital from any liability).

Fortunately, once the questions were done, the hospital staff were happy to see the back of the detective, blaming him for the unfortunate disappearance of puir John Watson.

Walking down the hall while secretly supporting an injured, tired and fairly surly leprechaun was surprisingly difficult.

John, wearing purloined socks and scrubs (trousers and shoes were not to be found on such short notice), clung to Sherlock’s arm with increasing desperation as he repeatedly lied that he was, ‘Fine, just fine.’

Standing at the bank of elevators, Sherlock looked down at the sprite, which no one else could see. John complained that they should have waited for dinner because he hadn’t been able to try the green gelatin yet. The sprite also wondered, if Sherlock was such a genius, why hadn’t he used one of those very convenient wheeling chairs, because then John could have sat on Sherlock’s lap in comfort instead of freezing his feet in these poor excuses for socks. Didn’t people use wool anymore? Even the sodding blue-blooded Faeries used wool to knit socks. By the way, John could knit his own socks—in case Sherlock was wondering. He just needed a supply of wool or clean straw and of course a spindle. And didn’t it seem rather cold in here to Sherlock?

Sherlock sighed. The other people in the queue mostly ignored the consulting detective, aside from the intern who shot him a murderous glance before taking the staircase. The stairs seemed a brilliant idea until Sherlock really studied John’s face. The leprechaun’s face had gone ashen and was covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“John, are you sure…” whispered Sherlock, as unobtrusively as possible.

“Yes. I’m fine,” John muttered through a patently fake grin. “Good. Great.”

The elevator doors opened, and John’s head jerked up in astonishment.

“How’d they do that?” asked John. “Have they always done that? See how much I missed because you let them give me opium…I mean morphine.”

Sherlock took the back corner, supporting the John and trying to prevent the others from crushing the unseen leprechaun.

The doors shut, and the leprechaun murmured in pleased astonishment. The elevator began dropping towards the ground level.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” shouted John, who looked both terrified and ecstatic. “Sherlock we’re moving! The whole room is moving? Is it supposed to do that? Bloody hell!”

Luckily, the leprechaun remained _unheard_ as well as _unseen_ as his trembling hand clutched the detective’s coat. Sherlock stared straight ahead, but unobtrusively placed his long-fingered hand over the sprite’s to reassure him.

“My God, Sherlock! This is extraordinary! How does it work? Are you sure it’s not magic? I don’t sense any magic, although I’m not a diviner, not by any means. Where’s this flying box taking us, and is it going to stop soon?” demanded John, who now looked a bit green instead of merely pale. “I hope it stops soon. I’m feeling a little queasy. Do you think it’s going to…”

The elevator stopped with a jerk.

“By the beard of the Hag!” shouted John, clinging to Sherlock and looking around with enormous indigo-colored eyes.

Sherlock started to shuffle off the elevator, but John tried to stop him, crying out, “No, wait. I’m sure we have time to ride in the flying room at least a couple of more times.”

Sherlock surreptitiously steered the sprite towards the revolving doors, while John rather effectively dragged his feet, considering that he had been near death only days ago.

Luckily, the automatic revolving door caught John’s attention, and Sherlock managed to escort his charge to the curb after only two revolutions in the door. John’s attention then passed from the door to the taxi queue, meaning that the leprechaun voluntarily crawled into the back of the taxi, while exclaiming about the smell, the radio and the traffic.

John leaned against Sherlock, seemingly fascinated by the passing scenery. He gasped aloud and muttered ‘amazing’ or ‘unbelievable’ several times. Clearly, the leprechaun must have been imprisoned by the alleged fairies for months or even years, if he found this little city so ‘amazing’.

Sherlock only found it tedious. It was only a grey, mundane cityscape—grey buildings, grey mist, grey people (okay, the people weren’t actually grey but they were very boring, and as good as grey to the younger man’s mind).

Under other circumstances, Sherlock thought that it would have been very pleasant to ride in privacy while holding a warm, solid leprechaun safely in his embrace.

But instead Sherlock was nervous bordering on frightened—and he was never frightened. He scanned the darkling skies for murderous crows and menacing fairies. Although the detective had no idea what a fairy looked like, or how large one was, or whether they could fly or were likely to be _unseen_.

"You're bleeding," Sherlock whispered into the leprechaun's ear.

"Only a little, " said John, not whispering because of course he remained _unheard_. "And I bet it's that other person's blood seeping out anyway. I’m sure that my blood would want to stay inside my veins. Anyway, Mary will fix me up in no time…hopefully. And if you keep talking to me, the livery-driver will think you're insane, because he can hear you even if he can't hear me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Magic, Sherlock," said John, allowing a cheeky little smile to light up his pale face. "It's all magic."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my story. Please consider leaving a comment; it would make me very happy to hear from you.  
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to the BBC's Sherlock or the characters from the show. No leprechauns, faeries or crows were hurt during the writing of this story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns much more than he wants to learn about a certain leprechaun. Chapter ends in sadness and angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was Beta'ed by my friend, Old Ping Hai (who has published many excellent works of John!lock goodness). All remaining errors belong to the witch.
> 
> Celtic translation (because obviously leprechauns and witches speak in old Gaelic)
> 
>  _Dún do bhéal_ means shut up
> 
> I, however, do not speak old Gaelic, probably because I am neither a leprechaun or a witch (that last bit is debatable). Therefore, I got the Celtic translation off of the Internet. I apologize if it is incorrect.

**Leprechaun Chapter 3**

Slouching uncomfortably, Sherlock found that he didn't quite fit in the fussy little sitting room of the supposedly ‘quaint’ old cottage. He glared up at rough-cut wooden beams that brushed his curls each time he moved as he tried to avoid bundles of hanging herbs. He moved slowly not only to prevent hitting his head on the ridiculously low beam, but also so that he wouldn’t knock over the many bizarre knickknacks set out on tables and the mantel. At another time, he might have found the decorations interesting. There was glass box full of teeth—from a multitude of species. He recognized shark, lion (possibly tiger), wolf, deer, and human teeth. But there were plenty that he didn’t recognize. Some didn’t seem real…

There was a vase holding blossoms of foxgloves (a source of poison), a geode, a crystal ball (of course) and several candles, all beeswax (of which he approved).

Then there was a human skull. He glared balefully at the skull, which grinned silently back at him, reminding him of his own cozy sitting room and his own familiar skull, and much friendlier skull.

Sherlock Holmes missed London and his comfortable and logical existence, which had not included strange skulls, mythical beings or magic. On the other hand, his prior existence had not included a John Watson, and suddenly, John Watson was what mattered most now. His priority was to get John safely ensconced in 221b Baker Street; then he’d have everything that mattered in one convenient location.

Unfortunately, before they could leave for London, John needed to recover from the wound to his shoulder—the one that had re-opened during their escape from the hospital and supposedly hostile ravens—the one that was still bleeding—the one that a _witch_ was supposed to heal. Which was why they had come to this disgustingly quaint, miniature toy house. This was supposed to be the home of a real, live witch—albeit a somewhat short witch, given the height of the ceilings.

The consulting detective had hoped that the diminutive, blond-ish woman who confronted Sherlock at the door was the witch. She seemed friendly enough and even had a nice John-like smile. But her smile vanished as her words of welcome died on her lips. The stocky fifty-year old woman had taken one look at the suddenly visible leprechaun and cursed, sounding very much like said leprechaun.

_“Bloody, fucking hell! What have you done to yourself now, John Watson!” she had exclaimed. At least she recognized John, Sherlock remembered thinking. “And who’s this? Did you do this to him?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You better not have, or she’ll turn you into a newt!”_

_That was when he had realized that this petite and very John-like woman was not the witch. Part of him was relieved to be around another (hopefully non-magical) human, part of him was disappointed not to have met a witch, and the rest of him was worried about his bleeding leprechaun._

_“Now, now, Harry, it’s not as bad as it looks,” John had lied, as Harry dragged the leprechaun into the house._

_She glared at Sherlock as if this were entirely his fault. The detective had hurried into the little cottage quickly, fearing that the bad-tempered blond woman would lock him out. In his hurry, he knocked his head against a low-hanging beam, earning himself another baleful glare from Harry._

_This short, bad-tempered woman was clearly a close relative of John’s. Sherlock then wondered if she was inhuman too after; he rather hoped not, for all the good that would do._

_He rubbed his own head while helping to guide the wobbly sprite into the crowded sitting room._

_“Bollocks and batshite!” cried Harry. “I bet it’s_ much worse _than it looks, leprechaun! Your shirt is covered with blood! You’re as pale as a ghost, and what the bloody hell are you even doing here? You shouldn’t be able to be here…” She paused to glare suspiciously at Sherlock who was quietly ignoring his throbbing head as they both settled John on the chintz-covered settee._

_“The curse is broken,” said John airily._

_Harry froze. “John, does he know about…” she whispered, flicking her hand up and down in the direction of the young detective._

_“If you mean the curse, I…I know all about it,” Sherlock had said without conviction. He still had trouble processing or even believing in magic, although John was very good at disappearing._

_“Oh do you?” she said. Clearly she had picked up on his lack of faith._

_“Yes, well…” began Sherlock._

_“I’ve tried to explain to him…” began John, grimacing as this Harry person matter-of-factly began to wash the wound with some herbal concoction. (Sherlock had protested the use of this probably unsterile home remedy, but had been voted down by the two blonds)._

_“Well let me explain…” John tried again._

_“Oh never mind. Explanations can wait…” she said, silencing both of the men. Then she had squared her shoulders and bitten her lips (in a perfect mimicry of John), before surveying the man and sprite._

_“You,” she had commanded, pointing at Sherlock, “sit down, shut up and don’t touch anything. “And you,” she ordered John, “quit squirming and be quiet, while I dress your wound.”_

_The men stayed quiet, as she muttered, “Not the first time I’ve had to help put you back together; though never in Mam’s own house,” and “I never met anyone who got himself in so much trouble,” or “Worse than a kid.” She tried to conceal her obvious concern behind her brusque practicality._

“Look, I can explain,” said John, drawing Sherlock back to the present.

Harry cut the leprechaun off with a simple, “Shut it, John Watson.” 

She then covered the seeping wound with clean gauze before putting pressure on it.

Sherlock frowned, upset at the thought of his leprechaun suffering—both in the past as well as the present.

“You could be more gentle,” said the detective, somewhat harshly.

“You could be quiet while I try to stop him from bleeding to death,” snapped Harry.

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” said John. Sensing disbelief he added, “Really, I’m fine. It’s all fine, yeah?”

Sherlock and Harry rolled their eyes in unison. Both of them had heard enough _I’m fine’s_ from the leprechaun.

“Can you hold this?” Harry asked the injured sprite, before hurrying into the kitchen.

Sherlock frowned, wondering why he hadn’t been asked to apply pressure to the wound. Indeed, he was prepared to offer his services, when she returned with a fresh basin of soapy water.

Ah, thought Sherlock. The woman was not finished with her ministrations, and obviously there wasn’t room for both Harry and Sherlock at John’s side.

Harry knelt down, dipped a flannel into the basin and…

“Wait! What are you up to now?” cried John, all stoicism forgotten now that this feminine version of himself was trying to give him a sponge bath.

"Leave off, Harry," grumbled the leprechaun, vainly attempting to twist away from the woman. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine," said the older woman. "You're filthy and smelly..."

"Because I was in hospital..."

"Which is where you should be right now," she said, scrubbing his hands with soap and water.

“Amen to that,” murmured Sherlock, earning a doubled-barreled glare from the two blonds.

"I couldn't stay there, the Fae found me," said John, trying to snag the wet flannel from Harry.

"What?" demanded Harry, easily evading John’s hand. "John, you didn't tell me that the fairies were at the hospital," accused the detective, rising to a slouched stance (the better to avoid those uncomfortably low rafters).

"The Faeries weren't there yet. It was just their minions, which I told you about," said John. “Although their evil minions can be nearly as bad as the cursed blue-bloods.”

Once again, leprechaun tried to pull away from Harry, but it was a lost cause. With a put-upon sigh, John surrendered with as much dignity as he could muster (which wasn’t much). Harry dipped the flannel in the soapy water and began scrubbing in earnest.

"Which minions?" asked Harry.

"The ravens," sighed John.

“Oh,” sighed Harry, before saying, "I see. Well, he Fae will start lookin’ for you at hospital, but it’s only a matter of time…” She eyed the drawn curtains nervously.p "Yes. They’ll track me down soon enough," agreed John, looking bright eyed and alert despite his pallor, as Harry scrubbed him down. "But once I'm healed, I can easily hold off a murder of ravens, and a fair few warriors too. I've done it before.

" _If_ she heals you. She's been in a rare taking all week long," muttered the older woman, confirming that Harry was not the witch. "In the meantime, John, you're bleedin' to death on Mam's newly reupholstered sofa. I just hope it doesn’t stain."

John’s face had fallen at the word if, then he and Harry both glanced with concern at the flowery new upholstery.

Then the leprechaun groused, "She does owe me a favor and I'm _not_ bleeding to death." John looked up to exchange glares with the incongruously named Harry. The leprechaun could have been looking in a mirror, thought Sherlock, because his eyes were her eyes, and their brows formed identical furrows of dismay. Perhaps they were siblings, deduced the detective. She might even be John's mother; it would explain much.

"Well, you're certainly bleedin' now," she said.

"Yes, but only a little," agreed the sprite. “It’s almost stopped.”

"And this didn’t happen just now, did it?” she asked, sounding like Sherlock’s Mummy.

“No, it happened, um…Sherlock?”

“Three days ago,” answered Sherlock.

“You’ve been bleeding for three days?” she cried, her voice skirling up like broken bagpipes.

“No!” John’s voice joined Harry’s in the upper registers.

“To be fair, most of his bleeding occurred immediately after he was shot,” said Sherlock, trying to put a better face on things. Judging from the dark look in Harry’s eyes, he hadn’t succeeded. “If fact, John didn’t bleed very much at all once he had the surgery, if you don’t count the blood coming out of the drain…Ah, he had a tube to temporarily drain the surgical site, which in fact he removed despite my recommendations not to.”

“Not helping, mate,” muttered John.

“Yes, well…This bleeding only started after John insisted on leaving hospital,” Sherlock added helpfully, “I suspect he broke a stitch or two during the escape.”

The leprechaun sighed, looking both put-upon and guilty at the same time.

"Oh, that’s all right then,” Harry said sarcastically. “And you do both know that even leprechauns have a limited supply of blood running through their veins?"

"Yes,” answered John. “But Sherlock let them refill my veins with some stranger’s blood, so perhaps I have more than I need.” 

"Christ Almighty! You had to have a transfusion?” she demanded.

John sealed his lips and stared at the ceiling as if it was the most fascinating object in the room.

Sherlock saw an opportunity to get on this woman’s good side (it was always important to get on the good side of the Mummy—or other relative—of one’s…Boyfriend? Partner? Supernatural Object of One’s Unbridled Lust?). “John received at least two units that I know of. For some reason, the doctors were less than forthcoming with information, and they hid his chart surprisingly well after I appropriated it the first time.”

"Like I said, bleedin’ to death and staining Mam’s new upholstery. Not good, John,” said Harry, shaking her head. “Not good at all.”

"First, I haven’t gotten any blood on her bloody upholstery,” huffed John, unaware of his verbal gaffe. “And second, the bleeding isn’t that significant.”

"And how would you know?" Harry retorted.

"Because I'm a bloody doctor!" snapped John. "I was the Medical Officer for the Northumberland Fifth Regiment of Foot..."

"That was over two hundred years ago. Now you're just a renegade changeling who's bleeding all over Mam's newly reupholstered settee."

"Bugger her _and_ her newly reupholstered sofa," growled John angrily, even as he looked at the settee with renewed concern.

"I do believe that John is partially right. I do think the bleeding has subsided—somewhat," said Sherlock diffidently, his hair scraping a rafter as he nodded. There was something that he’d just missed…he needed to replay the last two minutes of conversation.

"And who asked you?" demanded the sturdy middle-aged woman, rounding on the hapless detective. "Are you a doctor?"

"Noooo." Sherlock was trying to pick out the salient details from the recent discussion…

"Then shut it."

"Harry, you can't talk to Sherlock like that. And kindly remember; I'm a leprechaun, not a changeling."

"Six o' one and half dozen o' the other," said Harry dismissively. "I don't care if you call yourself a leprechaun instead o' a changeling or a blue-blooded Faerie, as long as it keeps you from having another species-identity crisis in the midst of bleedin’ t’ death."

"I'm not _bleedin’ t’ death_ , and I’m not having an identity crisis. I never have identity crises, and I'm definitely not Fae," insisted John.

"Yeah, you tell yourself that, John. Go ahead and call yourself not-Fae from now until next Beltane." Harry stood in front of John with hands on her hips, looking like a stern headmistress.

"Because I'm not Fae," argued John, looking the part of the recalcitrant schoolboy.

"John Watson, the important point isn't whether you're Fae or not-Fae, the point is that you've gone renegade! You belonged to the King. And now you've run off. He’s going to want you back,” said the sturdy blonde, running her hand through her short blond-ish hair. "I bet he sends his champion..."

“I bested him once,” said John.

“You won’t be besting anyone while you’re bleedin’ out on Mam’s settee,” Harry pointed out.

"Yes, exactly!” exclaimed the leprechaun, “Which is why Sherlock brought me here."

"Sherlock? And so that's the name of this tall drink of water?" Her blue-eyed gaze ran up and down Sherlock's form. "Is this man your champion?"

"No."

“Is he magic?”

“Don’t be daft,” scoffed John.

"Then what good is he?"

"That's what I'd like to know," said another woman's voice.

A petite, elderly woman entered the room, brushing back her short snow-white hair just like Harry had. The old woman was even shorter than Harry or John. Her pale, nearly translucent skin was as wrinkled as a sultana, and her bright, blue eyes emanated malice.

She smiled slowly with painted, blood-red lips, and Sherlock was instantly sure that this crone was the witch.

"Hullo, Mary," said John diffidently, almost nervously. She ignored the leprechaun, as she slowly prowled towards the tall brunet.

"Well, stranger in my demesne, who are you, to try to steal my husband's heart?" she growled.

"Husband?" gasped Sherlock, turning his shocked glance toward the blond, who was struggling to sit up using just his right arm. John shook his head at the detective, before turning to face the elderly woman.

"I'm not and never have been your husband," snapped John, trying support himself on his good elbow.

"No. No, and no," protested the leprechaun.

"Yes!" hissed the elderly woman. "I bore your child, leprechaun. That makes you my husband..."

"We spent a summer together. One short summer, Mary. And at the time, you were married—to Major Morstan, which you lied to me and told me you weren’t married. You lied and pretended that we were just good friends. Then you lied and said you only wanted to share Midsummer’s Eve with me—no strings attatched. Your words,” said John, shaking his finger at the old congerer. “You lied about everything. You lied and lied and lied. All to trick me into…well, _you know_ …all because you were barren."

"I didn't hear any complaints from you when your cock was seated deep inside me, leprechaun."

"Mary, not in front of Harriet!" hissed John, looking askance at the middle-aged blonde.

"Oh for God's sake," cried Harry. "I know all about how I was conceived and about the spells she used to seduce you, and Midsummer’s Eve—all of it. So you can stop trying to protect me, Da. For Christ’s sake, I'm older than _you_ , Da!"

"Not to be pedantic, Harriet, but I am over two hundred years old,” said John. "Bollocks! You've spent what? _Maybe_ thirty-four years on God's green earth? While I've spent close on to fifty-five!"

" _And_ I spent two hundred years in Faerie," snapped John.

"Where time runs differently: forwards, backwards and upside down, meaning you may not have aged at all or even aged in reverse,” said Harry. “Which means it doesn’t count.”

“It does count,” John insisted. “And it doesn’t mean that I’m not older.”

“That’s exactly what it means, Da,” snapped Harry irritably. “Just look in a bloody mirror sometime. If you can’t see that you’re younger than me, then you’ve become as mad as a Faerie yourself.” 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” grumbled the sprite.

"If you two are done with your stupid and completely irrelevant argument over who is older than who," said Mary sweetly, "the point I was making is that my John and I are bound together for all eternity..."

"Wrong!" said John, pointing his finger at the witch. "I was honest with you from the very first! I told you that _we_ could only last for the rest of the summer. And I’ve told you that we’re over and done with nearly every year since then—aside from Harry, of course. I have always tried to be a decent father. I tried hard as I could to visit the villare when ever I could get away from Faerie.”

“Which was never often enough,” snapped the witch. “You should have been there for us both. You should have loved us…”

“Dammit, Mary, how many times have I told you that I couldn’t be with you, because the King had stolen my heart?"

"What?" exclaimed Sherlock. "You love the fairy King?"

"Don't be silly, Sherlock" said John, smiling with adoration at Sherlock. "The King stole my physical heart, not my loving heart, although that was all but dead too. I _hate Rí Séamus __. But now…now, you have my heart and my love."_

Sherlock’s chest warmed as John smiled brilliantly up at him. The detective reached out to entwine his long, slender fingers with John’s shorter ones.

Mary made a rude, gagging sound as she pretended to stick her finger down her throat.

"Spare me this lovesick drivel," snarled the witch. “If your heart is back, then you could just as easily love me as him. You only think you love him because he’s tall and pretty, and because he was the first dog to come sniffing around after you broke free of _Rí Séamus_. And that is something I would like to discuss, because that should have been impossible.” She rubbed her hands together like a cartoon villain. “Yes, you must have employed powerful magic indeed, and we _will_ discuss it _in detail_ , after we send away this animated scarecrow. In the name of Hecate, how could he mean anything to you, John? He's not magical...why, he doesn't even _believe_ in magic."

"Wrong. Sherlock means everything to me, no matter what he believes. He is my heart, my soul-mate."

"Impossible. He's a common human, who will desert you in a trice, burning your poor new heart to ashes and leaving you heartless all over again," said the witch pityingly.

Sherlock shook his head 'no' and finally succeeded in banging his head again on a low-hanging rafter. John winced in sympathy with the detective, who was rubbing his head. Then the sprite turned back to the wizened little witch.

"I do not belong to you, Mary; I never did. I never loved you or anyone other than Sherlock…and Harry. And now my heart belongs to Sherlock Holmes; nothing you say or do can change that. And don't try using your charms or your Voice on me, because they won't work," said John crossing his arms, and then wincing at the pain it produced.

"You choose your handsome friend over me? Then I see no reason to waste my time healing you," she said, pasting a vicious little smirk on her bright red lips.

"Fine. Sherlock, we're leaving," snarled John, struggling to sit up.

"Da, you're not leaving!" exclaimed Harry. "You're still bleeding! Mam, of course you'll heal him!"

"No," said Mary.

"I'll be fine. I don't need her help. Wounds do heal eventually, even without magic," said the injured sprite.

"John, you said that you needed to be healed so that you could defend yourself from the fairies and their murderous birds," said Sherlock.

"That was the first plan. Now I shall use my contingency plan. I'll make a run for the coast," said John.

"Ha! I'd like to see how far you can run with that hole in your shoulder. You'll bleed to death before the next sunrise," said Mary with unholy glee.

"Nooo," said John, pursing his lips for emphasis.

"I have foreseen it," intoned the witch.

Sherlock shuddered at the thought of John bleeding to death, and was about to protest… "Liar!" spat John, "You are always lying. Tell me this, since you can see the future—did'ya foresee this?" he asked making a rude two-fingered gesture.

"I should turn you into a toad."

"Try it, witch," snarled John, glaring daggers at the small crone. "Maybe I'll curse you with bad luck, and you'll turn _yourself_ into a toad."

"How are you going to curse me after I turn you into an amphibian?"

"You don't intimidate me with your fancy twenty-first century words. A reptile is still a reptile."

"You ignorant fool! An amphibian is not a reptile."

"Well, they were in the eighteenth century!"

"You don't even know what I'm talking about."

"Wanna bet? You're talking about your relatives—the infamous Toad family,” growled John, with a vicious grin that didn’t reach his dark eyes.

"I hate when this happens," sighed Harry.

Sherlock noted that she didn’t seem particularly worried and tried to dispel his own incipient panic.

"I can see that they are not well suited for matrimony, though few people are. Just look at the divorce rates," replied the consulting detective, as the two supernaturals spat threats at one another.

"You have that right, boyo," agreed Harry.

"Yes, you would understand since you have recently separated with your own wife," said Sherlock.

"How d'you know that? Wait, are you a seer?"

"No," said Sherlock, "I simply observe..."

"I'll curse you with spiders and snakes!" said John with a low, fierce voice.

"I'll turn you _into a snake_ ," offered Mary, waving a short gnarled stick, which might have been her magic wand.

"Should I be worried?" asked Sherlock, feigning a casual disinterest.

"No, Mam's spells rarely work on Da, especially the transfiguration spells. And his magic is always non-lethal…although he’s taken out a fair few enemies with a shillelagh, so it’s a good thing he’s unarmed," said Harry, shaking her head at the belligerents. "You know, sometimes they're quite good friends."

"...not afraid of a little bad luck from a part-time Faerie, who can't even explain his own spells."

"I'm not a Faerie, I'm a leprechaun. And I don't use spells. I use natural magic sourced from within my marrow, which worked pretty damn well when it turned your last wand to ash. Oh don't give me that blank look, Mary Morstan. You remember. You tried to curse the Bailey twins, because you thought they stole your milk cow..."

"So, Sherlock," said Harry, trying to distract both the visitor and herself. "You were saying that you knew all about me, because of what you observed?"

"Indeed. For example," continued Sherlock, "I observed that you are a lesbian, as evidenced by your clothing, hairstyle and the masculinization of your name."

"I could be a tomboy."

"Yes, but that would hardly explain the wedding pictures on the mantel, which feature you and your wife."

"Oh. Right," said blonde, pursing her lips as though she’d bit into a lemon.

"Stop! That's enough," said Harry, raising her hands in defeat. "I don't want to hear any more." There was a pause as the flustered woman put her hand on her stomach followed by a couple of deep breaths.

Sherlock waited for the usual response to his deductions: tears or anger. He was betting on anger since Harry was related to John.

But Harry only smiled weakly and said, "Right, I'll just take your word for it, shall I?"

The detective's lip twitched up in an almost-smile. Her acceptance of him was so very John-like.

Mary hissed loudly, drawing Sherlock and Harry's attention back to the argument.

"I just want to know how you did it! Tell me, John!" screeched the witch, pointing a knobby finger at the injured blond's chest. "Tell me what spell you used to get your heart back."

"And I've already told you, I didn’t use a spell. I never use spells,” said John. “Are you deaf as well as ancient?”

"And I've told you that you must be using spells instinctively. You broke a very powerful curse..."

"I think I just by-passed it..."

"Bah! You’re a fool as well as a Faerie. There’s no such thing as ‘by-passing’ a spell,” said the witch.

“Not entirely true,” said John, with a little smirk.

“I think I know more about magic than you, leprechaun! And I want the magic that broke a Faerie King’s curse. If you’re too stupid to remember the exact spell, then tell me what you were thinking, doing, feeling. Tell me exactly how you escaped and re-grew your heart...and then I'll heal you," said Mary.

"I don't _know_ how it happened; so how can I tell you?" asked John, subsiding wearily into the pillows. "I didn't even know that I had a real heart again, until I realized that one of those monitoring thingies was beeping in time to _my_ heartbeat. And then, after I thought about it…”

“You? Thinking?” scoffed Mary.

“Yes, me thinking. And it wouldn’t have taken as long as it did, only someone let nurses give me opium…I mean morphine,” said John. Mary nodded sympathetically, and then they both turned to scowl at Sherlock. “Anyway, after I thought about it, I realized that the hospital was hell and gone from the treasure, meaning the curse was broken. So there I was curse broken and new heart too, but I haven't the foggiest idea of how it all happened or why."

"It was love," said Harry, barging into the fray. "It was love that broke the spell and..."

Mary mimed gagging herself again, " _Love_? Ergh!" said Mary in disgust. "You are romantic fool, Harriet Morstan."

"Of course I’m romantic! I write romantic novels with Da," said Harry, pointing to John with her chin. "It only follows that I'd be a romantic fool just like him."

"Wait,” said Sherlock, his eyes narrowed as he finally registered one of the things that had been bothering him. “She keeps calling you, Da…are you…Harry’s father.”

"Yes," said everyone else.

"John is your father?" he repeated, looking at the middle-aged woman.

"Yes," said Harry. "John is my Da and Mary's my Mam. You can see why I'm in counseling."

"So John...you're as old as the witch...as Mrs. Morstan?" he asked.

"Well, technically," said John, "I'm a lot older. I was born in 1769."

“As always, your ignorance astounds me, John Watson,” said Mary scornfully. “You know nothing about aging in the Otherworld, let alone…”

"You...you've aged...well," interrupted the detective, whose head was spinning from the onslaught of so many impossible—or improbable—concepts.

"I _did_ spend most of the last two centuries in Faerie, and I don't age much when I'm there," admitted John.

“Don’t age at all,” said Mary definitively.

"I think it's another dimension," offered Harry, taking pity on Sherlock’s evident confusion. "You know, like one of those alternate universes that physicists go on about. There was a show on the telly last month..."

"It's not another dimension. It’s magic, pure and simple," said Mary, who sidled up to Sherlock and placed a claw-like hand on his arm. "Like the glamour John used to make you think that you had fallen in love with him."

"I did not use my glamour on Sherlock," exclaimed John hotly.

"Let me show you how it’s done, Sherlock," offered Mary. John demanded that she stop, while she muttered a Celtic-sounding chant under her breath.

Suddenly, Mary was a _much_ younger woman—perhaps in her mid to late thirties. Her smooth skin was pale, except for the becoming blush over her cheeks. Her brushed-back hair had become shiny blond. She had a trim but curvy figure, which would have attracted most men. Even Sherlock thought that she looked desirable—very, very desirable, almost (but not quite) as desirable as John.

"This is a spell, but it's much the same as his glamour. _Oh, come on_ ," said the witch, her blood-red lips smiling seductively. "Of course he used magic to attract you. How else can you explain your love for a man that you've only just met?"

"No," said John. "Don't listen to her, Sherlock. She's using her Voice..."

" _Dún do bhéal_ ," snarled Mary.*

John's mouth snapped shut, although his eyes bled entreaty, while Mary pinned the injured man to the sofa with one hand. She was still beautiful, thought Sherlock, but Mary didn’t seem quite as desirable as before. He wanted to stop her…stop this, but everything seemed a bit…hazy.

Harry ran towards her mother, "Mam, don't..."

" _Dún do bhéal_ ," repeated the witch, silencing her daughter, before muttering another spell that sent the other woman into a chair. "See Sherlock, it's all magic."

"Ah," said Sherlock.

"Johnny's a leprechaun..." the beguiling witch explained.

"But not anymore…not if the curse is broken..." Sherlock tried to argue, but it was hard to reason logically though the fog.

Besides, even a genius had trouble concentrating when a man he trusted betrayed him and shattered his heart.

John had used him. John had used his magic to bewitch Sherlock, probably to ensure Sherlock's aid against the supposed fairies.

"We all know that the curse tying Johnny to the gold was broken,” agreed Mary. "But that doesn’t change the fact that he's still a leprechaun—a creature of Faerie, a creature of magic—a _non-human_.”

"John,” said Sherlock, wondering why his voice sounded so hoarse and broken. “Are you still…wait, no…of course you’re still a leprechaun. How else would you have performed your magic disappearing trick?”

John’s lips moved soundlessly as he lifted his hand beseechingly to Sherlock. Mary slapped the leprechaun's hand aside.

"Johnny can't help but use magic," said Mary, playing with the leprechaun’s hair. "You've been bewitched by my golden lad just as surely as if I'd laid a spell upon you."

John vigorously shook his head no, his mouth moving wordlessly.

"Oh, stop it Johnny; you’re only embarrassing yourself,” snapped Mary, tugging sharply on John’s muddy-blond hair. “And stop trying to fight my spell; you know you're much too weak to resist me."

Sherlock found himself backing out of the room. Betrayed. Used. No one ever _really_ wanted him. They just wanted what he could give them. It all made sense now; John had wanted protection and a means of escape from some made-up fairy king.

"And if you don't want to be in thrall to a Faerie changeling for the rest of your life, you'll keep right on moving, Mr. Holmes," Mary said, slowly waving her wand towards her daughter, then John and then back towards the confused and broken-hearted detective. "Think about this realistically—Johnny may look like a golden-haired, smooth-cheeked boy to you, but that's impossible. It's a lie. Johnny is no boy, Sherlock. He carries the wrinkles and scars from too many battles and too much loss. His hair isn't gold like the sun, bah...it's the color of sand mixed with the grey dust of decades of dissolute living. His pink lips only smile with deception. You have to finally understand what you're dealing with here. He’s not a boy, he’s a used up, old leprechaun—a rogue and a fugitive. Why he’s probably half-crazy from living with the Fae. You were just the first likely stooge to come along to help him break the curse, which _was_ rather clever of him. My clever John,” crooned the witch, playing with his hair again.

Mary Morstan’s eyes hardened, “And now that he’s managed to come back to me, he’ll have no more need of you.”

Of course, thought Sherlock, why would a magical being like John love a clumsy, rude, ridiculous man like me? Why choose me when he can choose a beautiful and powerful witch? He just used me to escape from the curse and to escape from his enemies. It's all crystal clear now.

"Now don't take it to heart, Mr. Holmes," said the smirking witch. "You'll soon forget the lies that dripped off his honeyed tongue."

John tried to rise but collapsed back into the settee, after a jab from Mary's wand. Harry reached for the detective's arm, but he shrugged out of her reach. He hurried into the entryway and lunged toward the door, chased by the cackling of the cunning witch.

Sherlock paused on the steps in front of the small house, breathing heavily as he tried to gather his scattered wits.

He was aghast at his close escape. The sprite had played with Sherlock's heart and, even worse, toyed with his mind.

Sherlock Holmes valued his mind above all else. He had spent years enthralled to cocaine, wasting his genius, potentially risking permanent brain damage. Nevertheless, he had beaten his addictions and saved his magnificent brain. And now some inhuman monster—some _leprechaun¬_ —had tried to tamper with his mind.

He took a deep breath of the cool air. Hoping that it would soothe his burning lungs and aching head. He desperately hoped the fresh air would clear his thoughts. What if the brain damage wrought by the evil sprite was permanent? No, it couldn’t be. But it would be best to get away from the source of the magic as quickly as possible.

He stumbled down the steps and fled up the empty street.

How could John do this? The thought of his betrayal hurt. It hurt so much, and Sherlock recalled his brother's prophetic words, ' _all hearts are broken_ '.

He couldn’t swallow, his stomach twisted in knots, his chest ached and his eyes burned. It was his heart. This was his heart breaking; it was the only explanation for the agony he now felt.

Sherlock used his mobile phone to summon a taxi, while he all but ran down the narrow road, fleeing the evil witch's lair, and the hateful leprechaun who had broken his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadness and angst as promised. Fear not, happiness is only a few chapters away...unless that evil witch has anything to do with it.
> 
> *in case you missed the notes at the start of the chapter:  
>  _Dún do bhéal_ means shut up
> 
> The next chapter should be up next week, assuming I'm not cursed by sprites or Faeries (knock on wood).
> 
> Thank you for reading this chapter. Please remember that comments are welcomed like flowers in springtime. To sweeten the deal, Leprechaun John will send virtual good luck to everyone who comments on this story.
> 
> By the way, I do not own the rights to anything to do with Sherlock on the BBC. (Big surprise, huh?)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or maybe John wasn't trying to trick Sherlock with magic. Maybe John really does like Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock really does like John. (My apologies, but I never know what to put in a summary.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, allow me to give due credit to my wonderful Beta, Old Ping Hai, who polishes my stories until they shine.  
> Any remaining errors are of course my own.

**Chapter 4**

The detective barely noticed the weeping purple-grey clouds, as the taxi carried Sherlock far away from the lair of that terrible witch and her silver-tongued paramour.

That man…that leprechaun had wounded Sherlock far worse than anyone ever had. Sherlock had _liked_ John, and John had used and betrayed him!

To hell with the attraction and lust he’d felt for the blond. That was nothing; that was merely biology. Biology happened, even to Sherlock Holmes, although the genius could usually control his urges.

The part that _hurt_ was that Sherlock had _liked_ the other man, and that never happened. The detective didn’t like other people. The rest of humanity didn’t understand Sherlock; they were unkind, they grated on his nerves and worst of all, they were boring.

John had not been boring or grating. Sherlock enjoyed being around John. Partly because the former army doctor had _understood_ him, but also because the other man had been…well, he’d been _John_. Sherlock liked the other man’s enthusiasm for everything from gelatin to stolen X-rays to consulting detectives. Sherlock even liked listening to the leprechaun’s sometimes-crazy prattle (which sounded a bit less crazy if one accepted the premise that John was a magical leprechaun).

But John had betrayed him. John had not only _used_ Sherlock to save himself, but he had meddled with the detective’s brilliant mind, which was an evil akin to damaging a great work of art—possibly even worse, according to the consulting detective. The devious blond had used his magic and that so-called glamour to twist Sherlock’s mind and force Sherlock to like short, blond ex-army doctors with the ability to turn invisible.

Sherlock refused to humor the leprechaun in absentia by using the ridiculous term _unseen __instead of invisible._

Furthermore, the evil little blond goblin’s plans were all for naught. Sherlock would not be used and he didn’t like John anyway.

Well, despite the initial pain, perhaps it’s a relief to know that I haven’t changed, that I still don’t like anyone at all—especially not ridiculous leprechauns, thought the detective.

Sherlock nodded at the reflection he caught of himself in the window, a reflection distorted by raindrops and smudges.

Yes, it most is certainly for the best that I am free of that nefarious creature’s clutches. I only _thought_ that I liked the wretched blond gnome, when in fact, I never _really_ cared about the stupid little fellow at all. In fact, I’m not even attracted to him. There never was any real friendship, no attraction and definitely no romance, because I do not do romance. Not my area. It was all just voodoo and spells and possibly some form of supernatural mind washing (which I shall never admit to in front of Lestrade).

Then why do I feel like crying?  
This, thought Sherlock, is merely the understandable disappointment that I always feel when people let me down…I mean, behave in an inferior manner. And the sooner I delete John Watson, the better.

Except John Watson had refused to be deleted. Sherlock had tried and the fairy sprite was still sneaking around in his mind palace.

The witch had promised that Sherlock would forget John's golden hair and his lies. He had rather hoped she meant that she was going to use a spell to make him forget all about John (even if it meant more magic messing with his stupendous brain). Such an automatic deletion would have been a blessing—but apparently that was too much to hope for.

So—no magical memory erasure. No cold, calculated deletion of superfluous data. He was stuck with the memory of his embarrassing infatuation with a rather substandard man.

John Watson was too short. He was old, very old. At least five years older than Sherlock. And ha, ha, ha! John Watson had wrinkles. And his skin was sun damaged, unlike Sherlock’s pale skin, which had been protected from the sun with sunscreens and awnings—thanks to Mummy and a certain interfering older brother.

Not to mention, John Watson was not very bright. He was an idiotic imp, who liked gelatin. Nobody in his right mind liked gelatin! And John Watson had a ridiculous sense of humor—he laughed when Sherlock told him about the man who’d tried to murder his boss using a fork and butter knife, when normal people cringed at the gory details.

Sherlock frowned. The detective despised _normal people_. He’d liked how John laughed about the murderous dinner utensils, because Sherlock had always thought it was funny too. He liked that John always laughed at just the right point in Sherlock’s stories. He loved the sound of John’s laughter (more giggle than laugh). John also asked pertinent questions that made Sherlock _think_. And then John called Sherlock amazing or brilliant or…

No, no, no! Sherlock did not like any of that, or if he did, it was only because John tricked him into liking it with magic. And anyway, he no longer cared.

The consulting genius tried to delete the leprechaun again. He gathered all his John Files and incinerated them in a massive bonfire that nearly took down the east wing of his mind palace.

The World’s Only Consulting Detective sighed, feeling relieved. His mind was clear. It had that fresh, clean feeling that followed a rather critical deletion. He wondered what he had deleted and saw a room labeled John Watson…

The genius instantly recalled that first night, when John had magically appeared on the wind-swept bluff. The leprechaun's hair had been a bright, sunny gold, and his face had shone with an eldritch vitality. Even then, Sherlock had felt the first stirrings of desire, which apparently had been falsely ignited by magic.

Obviously, the files had _not_ been deleted.

However, he was able to view the memory and see quite clearly that John had glowed that night—possibly glowing with that magical _glamour_ that Mary had been on about.

Well, since he couldn’t delete the experience, he would analyze it—just like a scientific experiment. Experiments were logical and edifying. Besides, one didn't become emotionally tethered to research.

The genius looked back at John’s supernatural displays in order quantify the magic. He compared the glamour used the first night (when the leprechaun visibly glowed) versus how John looked when he was unconscious (thus using no glamour) versus John recovering from his injury (possibly using some glamour). Comparisons were logical and reasonable.

Except that John looked basically the same. John never looked older or younger. If he overlooked the glowing, John had looked equally attractive at all times (aside from the pallor and weakness consistent with blood loss).

And upon reviewing his mental files, Sherlock concluded that every time he’d seen John, he’d seen a thirty-something man with scars and wrinkles and all. Sherlock hadn’t once seen a ‘golden boy’ or any other sort of boy—as described by the witch.

John was just a moderately attractive man, for a short, evil gnome…until he smiled. Then John was lovely.

AHA! Perhaps that _smile_ was magical. That was just remotely possible. Although…the so-called not-a-fairy obviously hadn’t smiled while he was unconscious, but even asleep, John was adorable.

As for the glowing, it had only been seen that first night. Clearly, more data on the significance of the leprechaun’s golden aura was required.

But Sherlock could say that so far there wasn’t any evidence that John had altered his appearance to seduce Sherlock (with or without magic). Sherlock couldn’t rule out some arcane love-inducing spell, but Mary had insisted that John had used a glamour and not a love spell. And what about motive? Seducing Sherlock wouldn’t have freed John from the alleged curse. Unless one believed Harry’s melodramatic assertion that ‘it was love’ that broke the curse. But that implied that John loved Sherlock…not that the leprechaun wanted to use Sherlock.

Bollocks! This was getting him nowhere.

And how did confronting O’Brian or getting shot fit in with the witch’s assertions? Short answer: they did not.

Which meant that Mary had lied to Sherlock. Mary had probably lied about everything—she probably wasn’t married to John—most likely there was no bond between her and the leprechaun, aside from their middle-aged offspring. In conclusion, there was no empirical evidence that John had used glamour on Sherlock.

That witch had, in the words of the leprechaun, _lied and lied and lied_ —words which neither Harry or the witch herself had attempted to deny.

And Sherlock had fallen for those lies.

“Damn it!” muttered Sherlock, pounding his fist down on his leg. “ _John_ didn't bewitch me. If anyone used spells on me, it was the evil little witch!”

The cabbie muttered something about mad dogs and Englishmen under his breath, before turning on the radio. Sherlock ignored the rude driver and his mind-numbing excuse for music; he also tried to refrain from thinking out loud.

Mary must have used a spell to confuse me, thought the detective...unless she simply outsmarted me by exploiting my native insecurities? No, surely even a witch could never outsmart me. Besides, John tried to warn me about her voice, and she was waving that stick around like a magician’s wand. She must have used a spell to delude me.

“Damn that witch to hell!” snarled Sherlock.

“Wimmin can be right witches, an that’s the truth,” agreed the cabbie, misunderstanding everything. “Surely yor lucky t’be well rid of her.”

Sherlock glared at the driver via the rearview mirror. The cabbie shrugged and turned up the volume, so that Santana’s ‘Black Magic Woman’ blared from the speakers.

Ignoramus, thought Sherlock, dismissing the stupid cab driver.

And then Sherlock smiled. But this was brilliant; Mary was evil and John was not. Not to mention that Sherlock’s extraordinary mind hadn’t been toyed with, at least not by John.

So Sherlock was free to like John and his silly giggling. Sherlock could once again enjoy the way John listened to him (and praised him).

Everything was good, very good. He could love John’s brilliant smiles and his laugh lines and his bloody wrinkles, too. Indeed, they were not so much a sign of age (at the most John was in his mid-thirties, merely four or five years older than Sherlock) and those lines gave John’s face character. The detective wanted to map each and every one of them.

And maybe, John would let Sherlock map those wrinkles and laugh lines with his lips, or his tongue, because maybe the handsome, blond leprechaun really did like Sherlock.

Sudden hope surged inside the London detective so strongly, that he could scarcely take a breath. His voice croaked like one of John’s bloody crows when he shouted, "Cabbie! We need to return whence we came! The game is afoot!"

“The hell it is,” complained the driver. “What it is, is my dinner time, boyo. An’ I’m not going anywhere ‘cept the airport, which you r’quested, an’ which it is ten minutes ahead.” 

It took several minutes for the consulting detective to explain that he wasn't trying to cheat the cabbie of his fare or his dinner nor was the consulting detective on drugs. The eager young lover was forced to pay the driver cash up front, including additional fees for yelling and for keeping the cabbie from his well-deserved dinner, ‘which it was shepherds pie tonight, thank you very much’.

Eventually, the well-compensated driver turned the vehicle around, amidst much honking and several insulting hand gestures from other drivers. At last the taxi was headed back toward the perfidious witch's lair.

Sherlock's fingers tapped nervously. He silently and not-so-silently urged the driver to accelerate, which only increased the amount that the cabbie charged. Sherlock paid it at once and drummed both sets of fingers upon his knees, keeping his mouth shut by sheer force of will.

With the evening traffic and the poor visibility, it would take at least another hour to return to the witch's lair, Sherlock calculated. This was far too long, anything could be happening.

The detective fairly vibrated with anxiety. What if Mary tried to hurt John? No, that was improbable; she wanted John for herself. What if she seduced John? What if she used a glamour on the injured leprechaun? Luckily, John didn’t seem to be interested in her, which was understandable. The woman was much too old for John and a pathological liar. Besides, John was clearly a bisexual with strong, albeit repressed, preferences for men. Hopefully the witch wouldn’t use her glamour to pretend to be a tall, dark man.

What if John wouldn't forgive Sherlock for abandoning the leprechaun to the tender mercies of a hostile witch?

No…no, that was unlikely. In similar circumstances, others might hold a grudge, but not John. John always seemed to understand Sherlock. The leprechaun said he loved Sherlock, and Sherlock would have to trust in that. Anyway, since it was obvious that the witch had used some spell to confuse the genius of Baker Street, Sherlock couldn’t be held accountable for his less-than-sterling actions.

For proof of John’s love, one only had to look to the way his heart re-grew for love of Sherlock, which was scientifically implausible—although it did explain the leprechaun's fascination with the heart monitor.

No matter, John said his heart grew back and Sherlock would just have to accept that as a given—for now. Further research was required, experiments would be conducted, and the laws of science would require a major overhaul.

Sherlock rubbed his hands eagerly. This new supernatural world would require detailed study and analysis. Just think of the experiments! The graphs! The scholarly papers! The experiments _on John_!

Oh! Oh! The existence of magic even shed a whole new light on some of Sherlock's most baffling cases—such as that matchbox filled with light...

The taxi slowed to a stop, bringing Sherlock out of his gleeful reverie.

They were still half of a mile from their destination. The detective was prepared to complain loudly; to begin with, inadequate service demanded a refund. Then Sherlock observed the many emergency vehicles blocking the road, and a frisson of anxiety coursed down the detective’s spine.

They inched forward. The cabbie rolled down his window, allowing a Garda to announce that there was a house fire up ahead, very bad, can’t save the house, but the ‘women all got out safe an’ sound’ and all traffic was to be diverted down Eastwood Lane.

Over the budding treetops, Sherlock could see tongues of flame licking clouds of billowing smoke like hyenas.

Sherlock felt the devastation of loss return as he climbed out of the cab. He was certain that the burning house belonged to the witch Mary, and that John was hurt again…well, hurt more…or dead. The detective's aching heart crumbled slowly into dust as he walked on foot to learn the awful truth.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

The World's Only Consulting Detective wore a heavy grey shock blanket. He sadly noted that it wasn’t even a proper orange color. Not that anything mattered, not anymore.

His eyes teared—from the smoke and not from sentiment, because Sherlock didn’t cry. He watched dully as firefighters tried in vain to douse the blazing timbers of the witch's home.

Naturally, Sherlock had attempted to approach the burning house to look for John, for evidence, for clues…for John. But the idiots wearing the uniforms of firefighters, medics and police all worked to stop him, using threats—both verbal and physical.

Before Sherlock had given up hope and was still trying to gain access to the crime scene, he claimed that he was looking for his cousin—five-foot six, blond, blue-eyed, thirty-ish. One of the firefighters had taken a few moments to inform Sherlock that both of the women who’d lived in the burning house had been lucky to escape the fire. The Morstans hadn’t been hurt very badly, only suffering cuts and bruises. They’d been transported to hospital ‘to be on the safe side’.

No one knew anything about a blond man. The firefighters anxiously conferred, and one of them rushed off to report another possible victim, one who hadn’t made it out alive.

And hope had died. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to follow the firefighters; he was too overwhelmed with grief. He was so overcome, that he didn't even question why Mary and her daughter had been cut and bruised, rather than burnt. He didn't even wonder why the Morstans hadn't reported John missing.

John was gone. And Sherlock huddled under his not-orange shock blanket, bereft and befuddled.

The lights from the fire trucks and the inferno itself illuminated the damp gloom, making the scene look like something out of one of those post-apocalyptic disaster films beloved by DI Lestrade. And right on cue, here comes a plucky pre-teen male who somehow survived Armageddon, thought Sherlock sourly. The foolish child smiled at the glowering detective and narrowly avoided being crushed by a truck backing up.

Sherlock scowled harder to dissuade the boy from coming any closer. The boy’s smile faded, but he continued his steady advance—sidestepping firefighters, another truck, two more hoses. And no one tried to stop the child; no one seemed to even _see_ the urchin.

Sherlock frowned at this anomaly. The boy tried another lopsided grin, and the detective wondered if the child wasn’t _all there_ , as Mrs. Hudson liked to say. Sherlock wondered if he should point the boy out to the grossly unobservant medics or the apparently blind Garda standing right in front of the barefoot preteen.

Barefoot? In this weather? Was the urchin homeless? Did homeless people live in semi-rural suburban developments? The boy was poorly dressed for the evening chill. Not only did he lack a coat, he was wearing oversized jeans that threatened to sag to his knees and a huge, hideously striped woolen jumper. The boy hopped over a trailing fire hose, splashing his through frigid water in his inexorable advance towards the detective.

This was ridiculous. This was a very dangerous place for any child, but it was worse than dangerous for a boy who was _special_ (the term preferred by Sherlock’s one-time teachers, often when referring to him).

The boy passed right between a trio of firefighters. This was outrageous; they not only didn’t see the boy, but they entirely ignored the faint golden aura that surrounded him. of course it couldn’t be a magical aura; no doubt it was only an optical illusion, brought on by the lights shining in the mist and fog.

The skinny boy paused when he received Sherlock’s death-glare; he stood irresolute, clutching his arms to his thin chest; he shivered.

Then, in a motion already familiar to the detective, the boy squared his shoulders, smiled grimly and resumed his determined advance.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

It was much too dark to make out eye color, yet the boy’s eyes blazed electric blue. The Garda and firefighters made no response as this little slip of a child wandered through a danger zone…at night…alone…in the rain…glowing all the while. The soaking-wet blond raised his brows, then appropriated a thermos from under a fire inspector's big nose.

"Hullo, Sherlock," piped John, in a nervous, childish soprano. He seemed uncertain of his welcome. "Would...would you like some tea?" he asked, offering up the thermos. "At least, I think it's tea. Could I gift you with a nice, hot cuppa..."

The boy’s voice was cut off as the detective pulled him onto his lap, crushing him to his chest. Sherlock breathed in the smell of wet hair, wet wool, wet downs and sea air—over-laid with the taint of smoke. Then the tall man breathed out a faint, "John."

"Here now!" cried a Garda. "Where'd tha' lil'boy come from and what’re you doin' with 'im?"

Perhaps it did look suspicious to be dragging a pre-pubescent boy onto his lap, thought Sherlock with a blush.

"I'm not a boy," said John, shoving the thermos at Sherlock, so that he could stand with his arms akimbo.

Apparently John felt that he’d be taken more seriously if he took up more space. It also helped that he suddenly looked nearly ten years older, raising his chin to scowl darkly at the woman. The poor Garda looked taken aback—whether from his sudden change in appearance or the young man’s threatening glare was uncertain.

"Well...well, sorry…You looked…Well, I still want ta know…where'd you come from, young man," demanded the Garda suspiciously. "And where's your shoes. And I want ta make sure this 'un hasn't been making inappropriate advances to you," she said to John, while glaring at the detective, who clearly looked much too old for John.

“Oh, no,” said John’s familiar tenor. “They’re quite approp…”

"This is my cousin. The one I was looking for," said Sherlock, lying smoothly. "I had feared the worst, so naturally, when he showed up, I hugged him in relief."

"Ere now, you said you was lookin' for a man..."

"And I am a man," said John. Then he whispered in Sherlock’s ear, “Sorry, I thought I could keep unseen and keep my disguise too. But, however, I cannot. Not right now. It’s all been too much, I suppose; what with the wound and the healing and the Fae an…”

“What’s he whisperin’ t’you?” demanded the law enforcement officer. “ _Are you taking advantage of‘im_?”

“That’s very impertinent, and frankly none of your business…” began John, bristling on Sherlock’s behalf.

"Shh,” Sherlock shushed the golden young man, before turning toward the glaring policewoman. “He is a man, like I said. A very special young man. He’s my cousin, John."

"An’ he was in the fire?” asked the Garda.

“Well, I wasn’t actually in the fire, because I left when the fire started, which happened when the Fae…”

“Well, thank God that John is safe and…” interrupted Sherlock.

“But where you been then, John?” demanded the policewoman. “Why din't you come fo’ward sooner? And why din't the Morstans report 'chu missin’?"

"Because I'm not missing. I'm right here," said John, with a fake smile for the Garda and a blinding smile for Sherlock.

"Just so," said Sherlock, loving that smile and sliding his arm around the leprechaun. "Now, clearly you can see that John is _special_ , and that I must return him to his family before they worry."

"Special?" asked the Garda.

Sherlock pointed at his head.

John beamed at the supposed compliment. "I'm special!" he said.

The Garda's eyes widened with understanding. She smiled, ruffling John's wet hair. John pulled sharply away, leaning further into Sherlock. The detective felt the leprechaun shivering, and quickly draped his not-orange blanket over the leprechaun.

"Yes, I understand. A very special youngster," the Garda said, using a voice generally reserved for young children or the mentally incompetant.

John's smile faded and his eyes slowly narrowed suspiciously. He turned to the detective and asked, "What exactly do you mean by _special_?"

"My cousin is cold and wet," said Sherlock, avoiding any explanation, which would necessarily complicate matters. "I must get him somewhere warm and notify his family, who are worried sick."

"No, they aren't. They left me to fight the…" said the leprechaun.

“Come, John,” said Sherlock, cutting John off. “It’s late. It’s cold, and you’ve missed dinner. Don’t you want green gelatin?”

“Oh!” gasped John. “Dinner. And gelatin for dessert, green gelatin? Let’s go now!”

This seemed to reassure the Garda that John was indeed special. She shook her head and waved them off so that she could inform the fire chief that the missing man—boy—young man—had been found.

Sherlock kept his long arm wrapped around his faintly glowing leprechaun, ushering him away from the burning remains of the witch's lair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this story. 
> 
> I welcome your comments. In fact, I'll ask the Leprechaun to send virtual good luck to everyone who comments on this chapter. :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally reach a motel...but Sherlock has questions. John has lots of answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Sherlock.
> 
> Many thanks to my Beta, Old Ping Hai for editing my story and sharing her sage advice.  
> Also, I'm sorry for the delay in updating. I thank you for your patience.

**Chapter 5**

Sherlock was forced to call for yet another cab and then asked to pay double the usual fare before this cabbie would allow them in the taxi. Sherlock deduced that the bonus was to be split with company’s dispatcher with whom the cabbie was conducting an illicit affair. John was appropriately impressed with this announcement and then the cabbie tripled the fare. 

Unable to annihilate the cabbie with a death glare and concerned that his leprechaun was becoming chilled, Sherlock threw a handful of bills at the adulterous driver and clambered in after the excited sprite. Apparently John found cab rides nearly as exhilarating as helicopter flights.

During the long cab ride to the city, Sherlock insisted on silence. At first the leprechaun found this injunction onerous, but Sherlock, requiring time to think and plan their next move, appeased the sprite by stopping at a station to purchase tea to go and a hot, no doubt tasteless, sandwich with chips on the side. John thought the meal was delicious, even if Sherlock hadn’t been able to buy any green gelatin. The consulting detective hurried the meal along. Not only was the taxi meter was running but Sherlock feared that everyone staring at John was one of Mycroft’s agents or an undercover fairy sent by the Fairy King.

Having promised to remain silent for the duration of the cab ride, John ended up dozing against Sherlock’s shoulder, giving the genius a chance to think. Clearly, the first order of business was to find somewhere safe to hide from Mycroft, crows and fairies. The next thing on the list was to question John. Sherlock had a very long list of questions. Not only did he require data to determine the nature of the threats and John’s plans for the future, Sherlock also wanted to determine exactly what John felt for a certain consulting detective. It was difficult to imagine why such a handsome magical being would want more than a passing acquaintance with a sociopathic recovering drug addict. Not that Sherlock Holmes was feeling at all insecure; he simply had questions.

After yet another bribe, the cabbie drove around in the outskirts of the city, while Sherlock surreptitiously selected a place to spend the night. The detective had the driver drop the pair off in front of a launderette a few blocks from a likely motel.

While drowsing, John had returned to what Sherlock assumed was John's normal appearance. He once again looked like a cuddly, albeit damp, thirty-something. At least until he smiled—then, of course he looked perfect.

Sherlock sighed, as he privately acknowledged that he was hopelessly besotted with this otherworldly person. John’s short nap seemed to have re-charged the sprite, and he practically dragged Sherlock down the street toward the motel. There was much for John to see, and the leprechaun stopped frequently, peering into storefronts and trash bins as though they might contain hidden treasures.

John was especially taken with neon signs, which he compared to various flavors of gelatin and ensorcelled gemstones.

Eventually, they made it to the motel, which, as promised by the building’s exterior, was seedy, smelly and possibly verminous but hopefully protective of their anonymity. Sherlock paid for the room with cash (so as not to attract Mycroft’s attention), while John stared in fascination at the sad-looking fish in the algae-filled aquarium, which sat behind the check-in desk. 

Finally, they made their way carefully through the dimly illuminated, pothole-ridden car park. Standing outside the door to their room, John said, "This is such lovely place, Sherlock. I’ve never seen anything like it." He bestowed an admiring glance on graffiti covered walls and peeling paint, as if they adorned a manor instead of this shady pay-by-the-hour hotel.

Inexplicably, Sherlock smiled too. Perhaps it was because John was so happy. Certainly, the younger man couldn’t deny that he enjoyed watching the sprite’s face light up like the neon signs, which so fascinated him. 

They stepped into a dark musty room and Sherlock sighed, smile gone, as he flicked on the light. The reds and greens of the mismatched polyester bedspread and curtains were faded and dirty. The detective frowned with narrowed eyes at several suspicious stains. He regretted the necessity of bringing his precious John into such a wretched environment. But it was safer than checking into a fine hotel. He locked the door even while he glared at their abysmal accommodations.

Meanwhile, the leprechaun dropped the damp shock blanket to the floor and turned around and around, grinning. "This is so elegant, Sherlock. Look at the satiny curtains. Look, there's carpet everywhere. And there are three electrical lamps. I love lamps. I love electricity," said John, flicking the light switch a few times.

"Oh! Look at the bed. There's only one bed, Sherlock. Isn't it marvelous," John went on, bouncing on the edge of the bed. "I love box springs; they're much better than Faerie bowers and much, much better than those straw-filled pallets in the King's nasty, wet dungeon..."

"John, we need to talk."

"We can talk in bed. Oh! Oh! Seeing as there's just the one bed, maybe you'll be wanting to take advantage of me while we’re talking, which is fine, by the way. I think I'd quite like to be taken advantage of by you..."

"John, earlier…you were glowing."

"Was I?" said John, scratching his scalp and leaving his hair in disarray. Sherlock found it adorable. "I don't think that I was. I don’t glow often. I usually only glow when I’m trying to make an impression on someone or to scare off a vampire. I glowed for Paddy, because I was trying to lure him to the treasure.”

"Presumably, you glow because you are using your magic."

"Well, yes...I mean, no," the blond frowned. "I use magic all the time without glowing, Sherlock. I used magic this evening to disguise myself from the Faeries who were looking for me as a man and not a boy. And that really was a glamour, but the glamour wasn’t directed at you…which you weren’t even there when I began the glamour, and I was only waiting until the excitement died down, as Harry promised to return in the morning to see if I was still there, which is when I was going to start looking for you. But I wasn’t glowing. Glowing would be stupid. How could I try to hide if I was glowing?”

“Yes…” began Sherlock.

“I had to make the glamour stronger, to hide from the firefighting people, who don’t like stray boys running about. So I was using double glamour to be unseen _and_ in disguise in case the Faeries were scrying, which they can sometimes see through glamours, but I was using a fairly strong glamour so I didn’t think scrying would help them, plus I had a protective amulet. But better safe than sorry, and you can see that I wouldn’t have wasted any energy on glowing, right? So I was unseen and looking like a boy and not glowing, while I hid and waited until I could begin a quest to find you. But then, you surprised me by coming back, and then you surprised me even more by hugging me, because I thought you were mad at me for being a leprechaun."

"We’re meant to be discussing how you glowed earlier."

"Nope. I don't remember glowing, not tonight," said John, wrinkling his brow in confusion.

"When you found me at the fire just now, you looked like a child of about ten, _and you were glowing_."

"Well, now," said John, licking his lips nervously. "I don't know anything about glowing, but I did use glamour to look younger, like I said.”

"All right, then that was the so-called glamour that the witch was on about."

"Yes. Yes it was. Glamour. I can change how I look through magic," said the leprechaun. "It's not that I was trying to trick you. I don’t want you to think that I ever used or will use the glamour on you, so don’t be angry and leave again. Maybe I should have dropped the glamour when I saw you, only, I thought you were mad at me, and then I thought, 'well, Sherlock probably wouldn't hit a child'..."

"Good. That's good," replied the blond. "But are you going to hit me now?"  
“Are you going to get angry and leave?”

Evidently, Sherlock wasn’t the only one with questions—and possibly a few, minor insecurities.

“No. Stop it. I am not going to hurt you or leave you," said Sherlock. "And as for the glowing, I hypothesize that you inadvertently glow when you use certain types of magic. This is something that we could examine. Indeed, I hope that you'll humor me by allowing me to conduct controlled observations to determine when the glow occurs, the cause of this glow and..."

"I’d love to help you with any experiment you like, Sherlock, but I really don't think that I am glowing—I think I’d know since it makes me hot under the collar and a bit sweaty-like. Plus no one else has ever mentioned it" said John, frowning in thought. "Say…maybe what’s happening is that you are sensing magic. Which might mean that you’re a seer. Do you have Faerie blood? Lots of part-Fae have the Sight. If you’re really seeing me glow…then maybe you are seeing the magic with the Sight.”

"I find that...unlikely," said Sherlock.

"Mmmmm. I don’t mind. I myself am not Fae, but I don’t care if you’re Fae. Because you’d be part Fae and part human and entirely wonderful. Maybe we can do controlled observations on you, to determine if you have the sight,” said John with an unexpectedly sly glint in his dark, blue eyes.

If nothing else, it demonstrated that in spite of his tendency to rattle on, John had been paying close attention to everything that Sherlock said.

"And, since we’re talking instead of inaugurating the bed, perhaps I should ask if it will it bother you if I use magic from time to time? I will promise not to deceive you with glamours and such. Which I never did, even if Mary wanted you to think that I did," added John, canting his head to one side and giving Sherlock a cautious look.

The sprite was definitely a bit insecure; perhaps he even had trust issues. The detective wanted to reassure the nervous leprechaun, but feared that he might easily become distracted by John's overwhelming adorableness. And there were things to be said and things to be discussed before he allowed for that sort of distraction.

"I realize that you never tricked me John," said the detective, holding up a finger to prevent the talkative sprite from interrupting. "I understand that your witch misled me and possibly used some kind of spell on me..."

"And I succumbed to it. Fortunately, I am a genius and was able to see through her spell in one hour and forty-two minutes!"

"That’s amazing!" said John admiringly. "It took me three weeks to see through her Voice the first time she used it on me.”

"Yes, but you are not a genius."

"No, I'm not."

are magic."

The blond nodded, "And I was wanting to know, will it bother you if I use magic...or if magic sneaks out accidentally, which it does now and again. I can't help it sometimes..."

"I wouldn't ask you to sublimate your magic all of the time. Only when it might ‘out you’ to the general public, as they say. In fact, I'm sure magic will come in useful when you assist me at crime scenes."

The leprechaun leapt up enthusiastically. "You want to keep me long enough to come on crime scenes with you? You’ll let me out and let me help you on crime scenes?"

"Of course. I envision a very long association, and as The Work is very important to me, I'd like to share that with you," he added almost shyly.

"That's brilliant!" exclaimed the shorter man, throwing damp arms around the detective. "Let's go find a crime scene right now—or maybe tomorrow. Right now we should get in that beautiful bed and…"

"Not so fast, John," said Sherlock, holding the amorous leprechaun at arm's length. "I wish to keep you under cover until I can ensure your safety, which leads to my questions."

"Three. I will answer three questions."

"Three?” mused Sherlock. “Is this part of some fairy tradition?"

"No, this is me wanting us to get in this enormous bed so we can do unspeakable things to each other. It's so sweet that you've bought this wonderful, luxurious room for our first time. But there won't be a first time, if you keep asking questions, so I thought I'd limit it to three questions…."

"John, if you could stop nattering on, I’d like to ask my questions…."

"Oh, all right. But it’s hard. You know it is May First, and I'm here with you, alone in this royal chamber of love. I need you. I want to kiss you, and touch you and to feel your skin against my skin," said John, removing his damp, over-large jumper. "And by the way, that was your first question. You only get two more."

"John..."

"Careful, don't waste your questions, Sherlock Holmes," warned John, gazing up intently from under honey-colored lashes.

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted his now too-tight trousers.

"John..."

"Yes, luv?" crooned John, with a crooked little smile. He slowly ran his hands up and down the detective's sides, which Sherlock found distracting.

"John, do stop that," snapped the detective, batting John's hands away, "I want to know, how did your witch's house catch fire?"

"Well, all right," said John, his seductive smile fading. "But I’m making the long story short…”

Somehow, Sherlock rather doubted that.

“...right after you left, a band of Faeries broke past Mary's wards and got into her cottage. I tried to fight the bloody-minded blue bloods off with a fireplace poker, and did very well, too. They were swinging their bronze swords around and breaking everything in sight, the heathens. While I got in many solid hits, I might have broken a bit of crockery too, but mostly I cracked a couple skulls and broke one of their stupid swords. Iron is stronger than bronze, which I’m sure a genius like you already knew. Anyway, when they smashed up her jars and lamps, Mary became furious. Luckily, the Fae started it. Plus they broke much more crockery than I did, so Mary was angrier with them than she was with me. That witch started slinging spells every which way...Oh!" cried John, with wide, blue eyes, as clear and blue as an evening summer’s sky. "Did'ya hear what I said, Sherlock? I said she flung her spells every _'witch'_ way. And Mary’s a witch! Ha! Now that’s one to record in my journal!"

John began to giggle. The detective's lips curled up involuntarily, and a sound very much like a chuckle escaped his mouth. John collapsed onto the bed giggling uncontrollably.

Sherlock observed that John was not glowing. He still looked thirty-ish (perhaps even pushing forty). He had laugh-lines, wrinkles and greying hair, and yet the leprechaun was still perfectly adorable and very desirable. So much for that damned witch and her talk of glamours, Sherlock huffed to himself.

"Very well, then," said the consulting detective. "I believe you were going to keep your answer short. So you fought off the fairies and started a fire.”

John gasped in mild outrage. "Cheater! You are trying to get answers without asking questions!"

"Problem?"

"Well, it isn't really cricket, is it? And that actually was a question. Ha-ha!"

"John, please, just answer my question?"

"All right, I will, but only because you look so kissable when you sulk,” said John, licking his lips. “Howsomever, you have it all wrong this time."

"There's no need to pout, my heart," said John, drawing Sherlock's face down to press a relatively chaste kiss against the younger man's pouty lips. "Even a genius gets something wrong sometimes."

"Yes, there's always something," muttered Sherlock, who then grasped John's hands to prevent any further distractions. "You were saying, John."

John pursed his lips, looking with dissatisfaction at his restrained hands, before flipping his hands over so that the two men were holding hands. The leprechaun smiled again and continued with his supposedly short explanation, "As I said, I managed to hold off the Faeries with my poker. I was growing a bit tired though, but only because of the blood loss, but the iron kept the dastardly blue-bloods back, and Mary kept 'em busy with her witchy spells, but it was Harry who drove 'em off. _She_ brought out her shotgun and peppered them full of steel shot, which she purchased ages ago after we discussed how we could fight off the Fae if it ever came down to it, which it did, obviously. Harry's a crack shot—takes after her old Da." said John proudly. "Anyway, the iron sickness will keep those Faeries away for a few days at least. Plus, they'll reek of rust for weeks, and none of the other Faeries will have anything to do with 'em. Serves 'em right, the blue-blooded bastards, bursting into people's homes and setting fires."

"Wait, so fairies have blue blood? No, don't answer that! That is not my question!" said Sherlock quickly.

"Yes, they do have blue blood. And that was a free answer," said John magnanimously, leaning close enough to kiss the bit of skin peeking out from under Sherlock's shirt. "And by the way, to answer your earlier question, the Faerie knights set the house on fire on their way out, for no good reason—the bloody Philistines. I hope they reek of iron for ages. I hope they get boils. They might get boils, you know, from the steel shot. I could have cursed them with bad luck, which probably would have ensured boils, but I was still a bit too weak."

Too late, Sherlock realized he shouldn’t have released the leprechaun’s hands. "John, do not remove your trousers."

"Why ever not? They're wet. And aren't you going to ravish me on this great luxurious bed? Or, better yet, we could ravish each other. And it's much easier to ravish each other with our clothing _off_ ," said the irrepressible sprite.

The consulting detective had every intention of ravishing this little blond tease. Already, he found his transport difficult to control... _but he still had questions_. He sat next to John on the bed and placed his hand over John's.

"Patience? But I've been waiting for you for at least two hundred years!" said John, sticking his lower lip out in a very inviting pout.

That lip mesmerized Sherlock.

The leprechaun took further advantage by licking his lip—again. Enough, his transport demanded that he taste that enticing lip now. The questions could wait just a few more minutes. Sherlock leaned down, and slowly bit and then sucked John's lip into his mouth.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated. I will ask Leprechaun John to reward your comments with good luck. (We'd offer gold too, but I find that gold is difficult to come by—even for rogue leprechauns.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This pretty much sums up the chapter...  
> "Argh! Discussion, discussion, discussion! If we keep discussing everything, then we'll never be getting to the sex, will we?" said John, slumping backwards in dejection.

**Author’s Note** My Beta, Old Ping Hai, proofread this story. I am grateful for her assistance and support.

Excerpt from the end of chapter 5:

_"Patience? But I've been waiting for you for at least two hundred years!" said John, sticking his lower lip out in a very inviting pout. That lip mesmerized Sherlock._

_The leprechaun took further advantage by licking his lip—again. Enough, his transport demanded that he taste that enticing lip now. The questions could wait just a few more minutes. Sherlock leaned down, and slowly bit and then sucked John's lip into his mouth._

**Chapter 6**

John moaned appreciatively, as his hand combed through Sherlock’s unruly hair. The brunet was secretly surprised and a tiny bit embarrassed at how much he enjoyed feeling John massage his scalp. He was also surprised at the depth of his desire for the other man. After eschewing intimacy for so many years, Sherlock felt as though he’d been freed from a dark prison to finally feel the warmth of John’s love penetrate deep inside him.

The detective’s tongue was simultaneously penetrating John’s mouth, searching and finding the leprechaun’s flirty tongue. The kiss deepened; lips mashed against teeth, tongues twisted and tasted; John began to squirm onto Sherlock’s lap…

“No, J-John…Wait,” murmured Sherlock, gently but firmly disentangling John’s hands from his shirt, while wondering when the sprite had started working the buttons open.

“What? Why ever should we wait?” asked John incredulously.

His flushed cheeks, red lips and dark, dilated storm-blue eyes enticed and invited Sherlock to continue with the mutual ravishing, but Sherlock held firm, knowing that now was the time to get answers—now while John was pliant and bemused by desire. It was perhaps a bit mercenary to take advantage of his leprechaun like this, but it was for his own good after all. Sherlock could hardly help the sprite if he didn’t understand the threats. Besides, Sherlock was naturally curious and John was extremely interesting. Their joining was inevitable and would happen very soon, but…

“John, I have questions.”

“What?” whined the sprite, trying to taste Sherlock’s jaw with soft, feathery kisses and sharp, tingly bites.

"Errrmm,” Sherlock cleared his throat, wishing he could clear his lust-fogged head. “Er-rrm. Um, so...so the witch finally healed you?" "Wh-what?" John mumbled, since his lips were busy brushing kisses under the brunet’s jaw.

Sherlock nudged the amorous blond backwards, lifting John’s chin with a finger and looking into his midnight-blue eyes. He then prompted the sprite with, "So…after I left. The witch finally healed you?"

"Can't we talk later?" wheedled John, as he caressed Sherlock's face.

"No. I need answers now, John."

"Arrghhh," moaned John in frustration. "No, it wasn't Mary. It was me; I healed it…or healed me…or whatever. Now stop asking questions and let me…"

"What? _You_? You healed yourself?" said Sherlock indignantly. He stood, inadvertently dumping his little blond sprite, luckily onto the bed and not the floor. "You lied to me! You said you _couldn't_ heal yourself. You insisted on traveling to that dreadful witch's house so that she could heal you!"

"I was wrong," said the sprite, as if that explained everything.

Sherlock suspected that his eyes might be bugging out comically, but John didn't seem to think he looked funny at all.

"Do you know how sexy you look with your hair all tousled about?" asked John, his voice husky with desire. The blond crawled up to his hands and knees, with a wicked grin growing on his face. "Oh. Ohhhh, I know; I could turn around, and you could take me right here, right now. I've always wanted to try..."

"Again you avoid answering me. You are always distracted or distracting me. You never stay on topic!" snapped Sherlock. "What are you trying to hide now?"

John fell back on his heels and chewed his lip in discontent. Then he muttered sadly, "I'm not tying to hide anything, my heart; I'm trying to seduce you. And it's not my fault that I'm easily distracted. I'm supposed to be easily distracted. I'm a leprechaun, and leprechauns are easily distracted."

Sherlock's determination to get to the truth was undermined by John's sad frown and his large blue eyes, which gazed forlornly up at the tall brunet.

Sherlock set his hand on the leprechaun's shoulder to reassure him and to make sure that John didn't just disappear while he got things sorted once and for all. "John, you said that you were a _man_ before you were a _leprechaun_. Surely, you are not that flighty," said Sherlock. "Besides, I thought the whole tied-to-a-treasure curse was broken and along with it your, your…your leprechaun-ness." Sherlock waved his hand as if to indicate John's leprechaun enhancements. The genius also silently despaired as his use of the English language faltered under the weight of desire and love.

"Yes, the curse _is_ broken. It broke when I fell in love and grew a new heart. My old heart, which the Faerie King kept in a small silver casket, became useless when I got the new one. I suppose the old one turned to dust or something. By the nose hairs of Chronos, I'd have loved to see his face when _that_ happened. Maybe it burst into flame. I hope it burst into flame and melted the damn box.”

"John," sighed Sherlock.

"I hope it burned his sodding Faerie claws,” snarled the sprite. His lips curled into a cold grin and his eyes narrowed into a glare as he imagined the Faerie King.

"John," repeated Sherlock, trying to regain the leprechaun’s attention.

Clearly his sprite was _very_ flighty and easily distracted. Sherlock was going to have to learn to repeat himself, well, repeatedly. It was going to be tedious—at least as tedious as life could be with a distractible magic lover who knew about a whole world that Sherlock never knew existed, and who still managed to think that Sherlock was even better than that magical world. Hell, John didn’t even think Sherlock was a freak; no, he thought Sherlock was amazing and brilliant.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be that tedious to have to repeat things a few times. Perhaps—just perhaps—it was something that Sherlock could learn to live with.

"What were we talking about?" asked John, blinking in confusion.

"Whether the curse was broken and whether you're still a leprechaun."

"Ah. Right. Well, the new heart broke the spell, see?"

John picked disconsolately at the cheap polyester duvet. "I didn't put it all together immediately, or I'm sure I would have told you. If I'd been paying attention, I would have noticed my new heart right away," John paused to use his dark blue eyes to good effect, "but then I was distracted, because I was bleeding to death."

Sherlock grimaced at the memory of John's brush with death. It was terrifying to imagine how close he'd come to losing his leprechaun before even getting to know him.

The consulting detective was savvy enough to recognize when the leprechaun was using his gift of blarney to manipulate him. Of course he recognized it; Sherlock himself had the same gift. Only he’d never imagined meeting anyone who would turn the tables on him so effectively—nor that he wouldn’t mind such manipulation. But then, how could he have ever imagined John Watson?

"Sherlock, I honestly didn't notice that I had a new heart or what that meant until we were at the lovely Hospital. Now _that_ was a wondrous place," said John, becoming distracted again. "I think Hospital is more magical than Faerie itself. And much more beautiful; for one thing it has very little pink in it. And also, I particularly liked the X-ray machines. I have to tell you, it's one thing to read about X-ray machines in forty-year old medical journals, but to see them in action and to see real X-ray films...to see my own real heart on an X-ray film. And to see all those other X-ray films that you stole for me..."

"John, I only borrowed them. I put them all back after you were done looking at them."

"Oh yeah, you borrowed them, that's right. That was such a romantic thing to do, borrowing X-rays for me," said John in complete seriousness. "Say, can I see an X-ray of your heart some time? I bet it's beautiful."

Sherlock Holmes blinked; this was precisely the reason that he was falling so hard for John Watson. John was the only person, aside from Sherlock himself, who'd find an X-ray of his lover's heart beautiful. They were made for each other, figuratively speaking of course, because, the World’s Only Consulting Detective didn't believe in such things as _destiny or fate_.

He glanced down at the half-undressed leprechaun. John was trim, yet well muscled, achingly attractive with golden hair dusting his scarred torso. The blond smiled, eagerly awaiting a reply.

And this was yet another reason he had fallen—John was one of the very of the few people who truly listened to everything Sherlock said. Maybe—just maybe—there _was_ such a thing as destiny?

Sherlock cleared his throat and attempted to clear his bewitched mind. "Yes, I'm sure Molly can get her hands on some of my old films. I’m sure I could persuade her to share them with you…um, well; she’d share them with me. But that will have to wait until we get to London. Now, could you answer the question?"

“Who’s Molly?” demanded the leprechaun with a frown. “Is she a rival?”

Well, John was certainly blunt…and clearly jealous. Sherlock smirked with pleasure that the leprechaun found him worthy of jealousy.

Jealousy was something new to the younger man. Of course, he himself didn’t suffer from jealousy; Sherlock Holmes was above such a ridiculous emotion. And certainly, the fuming blond in front of him was the first person to ever demonstrate jealousy over Sherlock.

It was interesting and rather flattering, but he didn’t want to waste time over needless jealousy, so he relieved the sprite’s fears by saying, “Molly? She’s a moderately capable pathologist in London, but she doesn’t matter.”

The leprechaun must have sensed his duplicity, for his eyes hardened into a pair of blue agates.

“John, she’s fifty-five and fat,” lied the detective, turning on his considerable charm before adroitly changing the subject. “Are you trying to avoid my question? Should I be worried?” He added a hint of a pout, knowing that his lips would easily distract the blond.

"No! No! I just…ummm…which question was that, Sherlock?" asked the distracted leprechaun. As predicted, his eyes had softened, as they focused on Sherlock’s mouth.

Unfortunately, even Sherlock wasn’t sure what the original question was; he was that flummoxed by the leprechaun. A quick search of his mind palace was less than helpful as it was in complete disarray—thanks to a certain ex-army doctor.

Luckily, he recalled John talking about his heart and said, "You explained that you didn't realize that you had a heart until we were at hospital and..."

"Oh!" interrupted John with a blinding smile. "That's right. We were at hospital, and you explained that the beeping thingy was beeping in time with my heart. The heart that wasn't supposed to be there, but it was! Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. It was music to my ears. Did you know that the Fae love music? It's too bad that I croak like a frog when I sing. I did learn to play the clarinet when I was a boy, but the Fae don't have clarinets, so I had to learn to play the flute. I got pretty good on the flute too. I mean after a hundred years, I was bound to improve, right? Of course, it was nothing compared to the music that they could play. Or you. Now, you play your fiddle beautifully. It's like magic, and I should know, seeing as how I am magical. Anyway, you play even better than any of the Faeries. Even better than Taliesin, who usually plays the harp and not a fiddle, but still…."

John paused to inhale, while Sherlock bit his lip to prevent a caustic comment about how his violin was definitely not a fiddle. Then John scrunched his face up in that adorable way that he had, which completely distracted the dark-haired musician.

"I wager you could bewitch the Faerie court with your music," said John slowly. "But then the king might take a fancy to you…and I'd have to challenge him. If I challenged the king and died in combat for you, would you still love me?" asked John in all seriousness.

"John, I would never allow that to happen. Not ever. Now could you please stay on topic?"

"I am. I'm talking about my heart..."

"And specifically, what I want to know is how you healed yourself?" said Sherlock in a rush as he finally recalled how this confusing discussion began.

"Yes, I know, but it's to do with my heart, which I noticed was back in my chest when we were staying at that lovely hospital, which I'd like to visit again, because the food there was marvelous. I especially liked the gelatin treats. They're tangy and fruity and come in all different colors. I like how gelatin jiggles like a plump girl's breasts."

"John!"

"Will you buy me gelatin treats tomorrow?" asked the fey sprite, narrowing his eyes greedily.

"Yes! Now tell me how you healed yourself."

"Huzzah!" crowed John. "Gelatin treats! Huzzah! Huzzah!"

The cheering blond noticed Sherlock's stern sidelong stare and swallowed down any additional exclamations, settling back down on the bed, while holding Sherlock's hand in a tight grip. Sherlock was uncertain when the leprechaun had grasped his hand. Not that he minded. On the contrary, it felt right to be holding hands with each other.

"Soooo, um, right," stuttered John, "So as for the healing of my shoulder...Well, it was Mary's idea. See now, Mary may be a bit of an over-controlling, domineering bi…witch, I mean witch…but she's sharper than a witch's tongue. Well, she does have a witch's tongue, because she is one, and let me tell…you…" John must have noticed the detective's deepening frown, because the blond stopped himself and returned voluntarily to the topic at hand, "Um. So, so… after she drove you away and almost broke my new heart, by the way..." John looked up from under his blond lashes. He didn't bat them, but may as well have done, since that look made Sherlock's cold reason melt like gelatin in the sun.

Sherlock wondered if the sprite knew what that look did to Sherlock. He wondered how much longer he could resist the temptation to run his lips over John's beguiling eyes, his expressive brows, his adorable up-turned nose, every inch of his face, every inch of John's body...

John smiled and licked his lower lip—clearly the enchanted man _did_ know the devastating effect he had on Sherlock and was using it to tempt the consulting detective. However, Sherlock Holmes was made of sterner stuff and he was even more stubborn than a former army medic turned fairy.

"And yet you say that Mary did _not_ heal you..." said Sherlock, urgently leading the witness, before he succumbed to the blond's come-hither looks.

"No. No she didn't. She absolutely refused to heal me unless I agreed to be her common-law husband once and for all…or some such nonsense. So we argued a bit after you left. Actually, I tried to charm the old bi…witch into drinking her own sleeping draught, which almost worked, and then she tried to use her wand to spell me into a hedgehog. It didn't work of course, although it almost did. The spell made my hair stand on end, all prickly-like, and did she cackle like a witch because of that, which she is a witch anyway and…ah-um, yeah."

John paused for breath and blinked at Sherlock's dark glare. John wiggled his mouth as though forcing his mouth to _stay on topic_. "Sooo, we argued a lot and Harry got tired of it all. That's when Harry waved a bunch of wolf's bane at Mary, it works on witches too, you know, a bit, anyway…Um, and then my own daughter, who is also my business partner and who co-authored of several books of romantic fiction with me…did you know that I’m a published author, co-author but still, um right. Must. Stay. On. Topic. Well, she threatened to pour salt on my head, Harry did, not Mary, who was sulking about the wolf’s bane…but the threat with salt was patently ridiculous. Salt burns Faeries. And of course, I’m not Fae. But Harry must have forgotten this in her rage. She has a bit of a temper, Harry does. I think maybe she gets that from me…”

John paused, having lost his train of thought again.

“Harry was angry and poured salt on your head,” prompted Sherlock.

“Right! So the salt only burned a tiny bit, because…”

“…you’re not fay,” completed Sherlock, waving his hand to get the leprechaun to continue.

“Well, I’m _not_. Not really…you know…the thing is, I'm not certain why she was so angry with me. It's not my fault that her mother is a mean old bi…witch. I mean, it’s not entirely my fault. I suppose it was my fault for sleeping with Mary. Although it wasn't really my fault since she used a spell on me, although I might have been tempted without it, since Mary can..."

"John, the healing?"

"Yes, well," continued John quickly, "In the end, Harry succeeded. Mary backed down from trying to turn me into a small, furry animal and decided to be a bit more helpful—mainly because she hates wolf's bane, but deep down, very, very deep down, I think Mary actually likes me too. I mean as a friend. Anyway, to make a long story short…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, because if this were the short version, then the long version would have been very long indeed. 

John, not having missed a beat, continued, “Mary, who as I mentioned previously is very smart…well, she finally pointed out what I had missed all along, which is that if I grew my own heart back when Paddy O'Brien died, then that meant that I must have healed myself, which incidentally would be very powerful magic, even if I don't remember doing it. Meaning that I can heal myself after all, and I never knew that I could do that. It also means that I'm a very powerful healer. You are lucky to have such a powerful healer as your soul-mate." John looked expectantly at the younger man.

Sherlock cracked a smile as John fished for a compliment. "Yes, I am lucky to have such a powerful and handsome healer for my soul-mate." Sherlock considered this and added more seriously, "I assume that your use of the word 'soul-mate' has significance beyond the usual trite expression."

"Yes, of course," said John. "It means..."

"Never mind, we'll come back to it."

"But it's important. It means we belong together..."

"Good, because I agree that we belong together. But our discussion…"

"Argh! Discussion, discussion, discussion! If we keep discussing everything, then we'll never be getting to the sex, will we?" said John slumping backwards in dejection. "The First of May will be over, and we'll still be jabbering on and on and on and on and on and on..."

"Mary said you healed yourself in order to grow a new heart, meaning that you could heal yourself?" said Sherlock, who was determined to finish this conversation and understand what he was getting himself into with his fairy lover. However, it was difficult to continue this discussion because John's entreaties had not fallen on dumb ears or unresponsive flesh.

"Yes, yes, of course," muttered John. "When I got shot, I must have instinctively tried to heal myself." His speech gradually became more animated as he talked. "Naturally, I healed the more grievous wound first, which was my absent heart, not so much because I couldn't live without it, because of course, I could. That is, I could live without a heart as long as I remained cursed and as long as I stayed near the treasure. No, I needed my heart to love you and to be with you. And that was the most important thing in the world. Now do you see how much I love you? D'you see how much I need you?" John licked his lips again, leaning forward and fanning Sherlock's desire.

The detective leaned forward too, stealing just a taste of John's lips once again.

John pulled the brunet down on top of him, murmuring, "Finally," and they tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and battling tongues.

Sherlock only allowed himself a brief respite in John's embrace, before he raised himself up on one arm, still lying atop the smaller man.

"Keep talking, John. You managed to heal your...h-heart?" He stuttered a bit when John nibbled his jaw again—the tricky sprite had already learned some of Sherlock’s weak spots and didn’t hesitate to use them.

"Hmm, well that's all," muttered John, in between the nibbling. "The sacrifice was sufficient to heal my heart, but it wasn't enough to heal my shoulder too, so that wound kept bleeding until the doctors at Hospital sewed it up." John returned to placing nips and kisses along the younger man's jaw, heading toward his ear.

"Sacrifice?" questioned the detective. "Explain."

"Paddy O'Brien of course," said John. "He fell on my old bayonet at just the right moment, and so he became the sacrifice which empowered me to re-grow my heart. Terribly ironic when you think about it—Paddy, that murderous reprobate, who tried to kill you and almost did kill me; he became the sacrifice which freed me from the curse, letting me give myself to you."

John gently brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair, untangling the very knot which he had made minutes earlier. "Not that I'm not grateful for his sacrifice," added John, "but I'm sort of glad that if someone had to die, it was Paddy, who wasn't a very nice man." John paused in his discourse and his kissing. "But still, I'm just as glad that I'm not the one who actually killed Paddy. I don't like killing people; I’ve had to battle a few Faeries, but I haven't actually killed anyone since I became a leprechaun—unless you count the…Never mind. It’s not that I couldn’t kill someone. I was a soldier, even if I was a doctor, and I had to defend my patients more than once. The thing is, I don’t want to kill anyone now, partly because most people don’t deserve it and partly I’d just rather avoid Death. Now don’t misunderstand me, he's always been a perfect gentleman. It's just that he makes me a bit nervous sometimes, like he's going to forget being a gentleman, and well…you know." John gave a little shudder.

"Who? Who makes you nervous?" demanded Sherlock, pulling the blond close. He scowled, ready to defend John from this man…or fairy…or whatever.

"Death, Death makes me nervous. He's merciful, I'll grant you that, but he gives me the willies. It's so awkward having to do the polite, what with him looming over me and staring out from under that dark hood he wears. Not that he’s threatening to kill or even threatening me at all. But he gives me these looks…I’m sure you know what I mean, being as beautiful and virile and handsome as you are…um…um.”

John made a face as he tried to collect his scattered thoughts.

“Oh, I remember,” said the leprechaun, “…I was saying that Paddy was a bad one, and if the Earth herself was willing to stab Paddy O'Brien with my rusty old bayonet, well then, who am I to complain. And really, I shouldn't speak poorly of Death. He was very considerate the night Paddy shot me. I mean he took Paddy's dark soul and bundled him off, quick as you please. And then Death just hung about, patiently waiting for me to die or not to die. He never tried rushing me, even though he surely had other clients waiting to have their souls collected. And for once, he didn't leer at me as though he could see me without my clothes—which he can—I think. I mean he can see past a man's body and into his soul, so I suspect that he can see past a man's clothing to look at his goods, so to speak. But he's a professional, Death is. And that night I was a potential client, and I guess he doesn’t mix business with pleasure. All in all, I have to admit that Death was kindness itself after I got shot—politely asking me if it hurt much? And wondering if I needed anything? And then when the whirly-round-and-round showed up, he must have realized that I was going to pull through, because he tipped his black hood at me, smiled that death head's rictus of his, and off he went."

John pulled at his lip and wrinkled his brow in deep thought. "It really was very kind of him to wait around like that when he could have taken advantage of me, what with me bleeding to death and all. So... I suppose I should send him a note of thanks...or maybe some flowers. He likes flowers...Poor old sod, maybe I should give him another chance and invite him to tea."

"I think a note would be sufficient," suggested Sherlock, who was not quite sure if he was ready to meet Death firsthand, especially if Death was enamored of John. It was disturbing to consider that so many people, or rather supernatural beings, wanted the leprechaun. It was going to take all of Sherlock's considerable genius to beat off these rivals, both male and female.

"Mmm," hummed John, "I'm not sure a note is enough. I do think that I was meant to die that night and that means that I owe Death a favor for giving me extra time not to die. No, it'll have to be tea and scones. Or maybe crumpets."

Sherlock thought some more about meeting Death. He wondered what it would be like to meet Death in person. Come to think of it, the prospect was actually very exhilarating, unless Death tried to steal John. Sherlock then wondered if baritsu would be effective against the personification of death, and what would happen if Death himself died. It was a fascinating mental exercise.

"John, when we get back to London, you may invite Death to our flat, as long as he promises not to attempt to spirit you away, because then I'd have to kill him."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock," scoffed John. "I told you that Death was polite. He's a very posh gentleman, very handsome in his billowing black weeds, mind you. And he would never break the sanctity of tea time with an abduction."

"I see," said Sherlock, feeling something remarkably similar to jealousy spark inside him. "He's a gentleman is he? And he's handsome?"

"Well," said John. "Yes. He's very handsome, when he isn't grinning like a ghoul."

"John, I may want to rescind the invitation."

"What? Why?"

"I think you should know that I am a selfish man; a possessive…and apparently a jealous man."

"Oh?"

"I have no intention of sharing you with anyone."

"No. Oh no, heavens no. I'm not interested...No. I mean, Death was very kind to me the other night, but no, he and I...well, he doesn't really suit me...I did say that I generally try to avoid his company, didn't I?"

"He's made actual advances toward you, hasn't he?" demanded Sherlock, as jealousy flooded his heart.

"Not exactly…"

"I see," Sherlock bit off the words, seeing it all plain as day. "John, I definitely rescind my offer to host Death. I see no reason to invite one of your admirers to tea."

"As you wish, my heart. I'll just send him some daisies," said John, as his fingers combed soothingly through the brunet's dark locks. "You know you have no reason to be jealous, luv. My, dear, dear heart, there will never be anyone for me except you."

"Good," said the detective.

"Good," agreed the leprechaun with a satisfied smirk. He looped his arm around Sherlock's neck to pull him down, nuzzling into his long neck to place more kisses and whispered endearments into his pale skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I was very late in posting this update due real life, which is just soooo demanding sometimes. Jeesh.   
> Thank you for you patience and please consider commenting. I love hearing from you! :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of (hopefully amusing) talking. Sherlock finally gets his questions answered, and promises to buy John gifts but not a pet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Old Ping Hai for editing my story. She has also given me excellent suggestions and loads of encouragement. It should go without saying that any remaining errors are entirely my own fault (but I said it anyway).

It required superhuman effort, but Sherlock resisted John's attempt to take their passionate embrace any further. Before John was attacked by yet another witch or fairy or…or…or whatever, the younger man needed to understand who John’s supernatural enemies were and the extent of the leprechaun’s magical powers.

The frustrated blond groaned his disapproval as Sherlock pushed himself onto his elbows to pursue his answers.

"Why did you require a sacrifice?" asked the detective.

"What? What sacrifice?" cried the aggrieved leprechaun, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair.

"You said that O'Brien was the sacrifice that provided the impetus to re-grow your heart," said Sherlock, drawing his fingers over the pink scar, which was all that remained of the bullet wound, a wound that only hours ago was still bleeding.

"Impetus? I never used that word before, so I think you must be mistaken,” said John, looking down at the pale fingers touching his rosy scar.

The leprechaun frowned at the blemish. “ _That_ never should have scarred. It’s surely not my best work," sighed John while shaking his head. "But today I was rushed. I got the job done, but now I'm stuck with an ugly scar. And since it was created using blood magic, I probably won’t be able to fix it. Not to mention, I can just tell that this is going to be one of those scars that's going to ache whenever the glass drops*. Does it repel you?"

"Idiot. It doesn’t repel me. It fascinates me. Indeed, it's miraculous," murmured Sherlock, gently kissing the healed wound.

"It wasn't a miracle, it was magic," corrected John pedantically. "There is a big difference between the two, Sherlock. I cannot perform miracles; I know a Saint who can, but she….”

The detective pinned the leprechaun down with his steady gaze, and John's mouth closed tight.

"We will discuss semantics later,” said the detective. “For now, I wish to know whether a sacrifice is always required before you to perform magic."

"Depends on the magic," said John petulantly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, waiting for an explanation.

John sighed, "Yes, all right. Certain magic requires a sacrifice, especially powerful magic. But often magic can be powered by the spells themselves or by potions and talismans; sometimes the power comes from within the person performing the magic. For instance, when I heal, I usually don't offer up a sacrifice, because I'm strong enough to use my own energy to do the healing. It can be a bit tiring to heal without a sacrifice, but in general, I don't like using sacrifices. Some people call me stubborn for not using them, which is silly. I’m not stubborn at all, am I?”

John did not wait for Sherlock to response. It was just as well, thought the detective, because he was finding John Watson to be a bit stubborn at times.

“I especially dislike blood sacrifices,” continued the sprite. “I don’t like taking even a little life from somebody else. Plus, blood magic can be hard to control—a bit dangerous if you’re not careful. Then too, blood magic is dark magic, no matter how you look at it, right?”

The detective nodded, as if he could possibly have any reasoned opinion on blood magic.

“I have to tell you, Mary favors the use of sacrifices—and not just common, everyday sacrifices, mind you. For instance, that witch despises hair and nail offerings. She prefers tears and blood. So much so, that when I refuse such offerings, she gives me no end of grief. Of course, Mary argues that when I use my own energy to heal, it's just another form of a sacrifice. She thinks I’m sacrificing part of myself, since I’m draining my own using my vital force. She thinks that’s the same as accepting a sacrifice. I tell her no, it’s not the same at all, and even if it is, I would rather use my owe life force than someone else’s. Now as far as I know, Mary’s never taken a mortal sacrifice…but then again, there was that suspicious death in seventy-three.”

Sherlock looked up, intrigued by the possibility of an unsolved murder, even one that was decades old. In fact, he’d be more than pleased to pin a murder on the dreadful old witch, who’d cast a spell on him, nearly making him lose John Watson forever.

“Never mind, it was probably nothing,” said John shaking his head. “In the end, I couldn’t refuse the blood offering.” It took Sherlock a moment to realize that John’s narrative had jumped from the seventies back to the present day. “I was desperate to escape from Mary’s lair and so I could try to find you. But there I was weak and wounded and no healer in sight. So I swallowed my objections; plus Harry was very adamant about me taking her gift. She is not a woman to be trifled with when she’s made up her mind—obstinate, like her mother I suppose. And now that I think on it, I wonder if I even could _myself_ without some kind of offering, because that would be using a power against itself—or for itself, which might be really dangerous. It’s something to think about." John screwed his face up as he considered the potential perils to be found in magical self-healing.

"Ultimately, who was sacrificed?" asked Sherlock, putting off the mysterious death that had occurred in seventy-three and hoping for an answer that actually made sense.

"No one was sacrificed! I would never accept an offering of someone’s life, as I just told you. In fact, you might recall that I didn't even ask for O'Brien's sacrifice. I suspect that it was the Crone who asked the Earth to stab Paddy with the bayonet. You see, the Crone has always rather liked me."

"Never mind about the crone; we'll just add her to the list of all the beings who desire my leprechaun. Now, wipe that smug look off of your face and concentrate. First you said that there was a sacrifice, and now you say that there wasn't; please enlighten me."

"It's simple, there wasn't a mortal sacrifice, but Harry did cut her thumb, and she offered up some of her life's blood, even though I specifically forbade her from doing so. Naturally, she didn't listen to me when I told her not to. I have no idea how my daughter became so headstrong. I blame Mary. I’m certainly not headstrong. No one would ever call me stubborn.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at his leprechaun’s self-delusion. “And speaking of Mary, even though she was angry with me, she gave me enough ambergris to complete the healing, so that Harry didn't have to bleed very much. She did that mostly for Harry’s sake, but I was grateful all the same…I must say that I like ambergris much better than blood. Ambergris smells better, for one thing. Sherlock, will you buy me some ambergris?" asked John, with a disingenuous smile and another come-hither look.

"Yes, yes. Whatever you want," said Sherlock, brushing back the blond fringe from John's forehead and planting a row of kisses to smooth out the sprite's furrowed brow. "And then what happened next?"

"Well, between the three of us, we were getting my shoulder all sorted, when the thrice-cursed Fae attacked, which is why I was forced to rush the healing." John glared down at his scar. "The bloody blue-bloods tried to skewer me with their enchanted blades of brass and silver. I'll wager the blades were spelled so that if they pierced my heart, I'd fall under the Faerie King's power again. But I didn't let them stick me with their cursed blades. Instead, I laid about with Mary's fireplace poker, which was tipped with iron and drove them back proper, the black-hearted devils. HA! I even smashed a couple of their blades—iron being stronger than brass, not to mention silver, which never seems to hold an edge—stupid, silly gits. And of course, Mary wasn’t about to let the attack on her home go unanswered. She’s tougher than shoe leather and handy in a fight. She was cursing and shooting spells from her wand like nothing I've ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot. But in the end, it was Harry who put paid to the bloody Faeries. She brought out her shotgun and peppered the bastards with steel shot. That had to hurt, seeing as iron is poisonous to the Fae. I must say that Harry handled her gun very well. She gets that from me, Sherlock, not from Mary; I don't mind mentioning that I'm something of a crack shot. I'm pretty damn good with a bow too, or a fireplace poker or a shillelagh. I'm not much use with a sword though.” The sprite finally paused for breath. “Well! I've answered all your questions, and May the First doesn't last forever; I'd say that it's time for me to worship your body."

John's lips immediately set to worshipping Sherlock's neck, which made it difficult to think, even if Sherlock was a genius. Still, he had a few more questions.

"John, I wish to clarify an important point," said the detective, tilting his head and loosening a button on his shirt to allow John to worship more of his body even while they continued this discussion. "Although the curse was broken, are you _still_ a leprechaun? To be precise, will you remain magical, as a leprechaun?"

"Hmm?" John raised his head, revealing his dark blown pupils, "Magical? Well, yes. I'll always be a leprechaun and that means magical. I thought we discussed my magic already?"

Sherlock frowned; it was unlike him to repeat himself. It was unlike him to allow anyone to tempt his flesh, especially while he was gathering data; it was unlike him to allow anything to disturb the smooth running of his grey matter. However, he not only allowed this disruption, but he welcomed it.

"Stop frowning, my heart. I am here and willing to do anything to make you smile," said John.

"But why? No one finds me that attractive, especially once they get to know me. Whatever physical attraction they might feel initially, fades once we begin to talk. You’ll find that most people find me abrasive and rude."

"Ah, but I'm not most people, I'm your soul-mate. Everything you do is brilliant and beguiling, except for possibly that screeching-violin thing you do when you get upset. That sound your violin makes is like the cry of a _bean sí_ *. Makes m’skin crawl, but it’s fine. I can live with a bit of fiddle torturing, and of course, I can always stuff my ears with pixie-fluff—or cotton, if fluff isn’t handy. Aside from that, everything else you do is perfect. I will always be enchanted with you, my heart."

"You make it sound like we'll be together...forever," said Sherlock, who liked this thought even though it was impossible for anyone to stay with him for very long.

"Wellll, yessss," leprechaun said, drawing out the syllables and loosening a button on his lover's shirt. "We're soul-mates. I'll never leave you...unless you don't want me anymore. Then I'd leave of course. It would break my heart, but I would go if you want. And then I'd die, which would be a fine feather in Death's cap—which he doesn't wear a cap, but you gather my meanin'," said John wearing a dark scowl. "But I'd leave you in a beat of my new heart, if you didn't want me around. A gentleman never forces his attentions on a lady...or another gentleman."

"Thank you for clarifying that, as I certainly don't view myself as a lady," said Sherlock with mock sincerity. He placed his fingers under John's chin and gently raised it for a kiss. "More importantly, _you_ may stop scowling and plotting your own demise. I do not wish you to leave under any circumstances."

Sherlock slowly let his weight rest atop his sturdy leprechaun. He kissed a smile back on to John's face. Further snogging and wandering hands soon restored the leprechaun's sunny grin.

"However..." said the brunet into the soft skin under John's ear.

"No, no, no!" complained the leprechaun, as his shining smile was eclipsed by frustration. "No more 'howevers'. No more talking. No more _discussion_!” "However," rumbled Sherlock's insistent baritone, "I do need to understand the threat posed by your King of the Fairies and his minions."

"He's not _my Faerie King_ ," spat John. "I _hate_ him. He's not a gentleman, and he's never nice. It's not that the whole Faerie Courte is rotten, because some of them are fine. The Crone is she’s lovely. She taught me a great deal about healing—though I’m not certain whether she’s even a Faerie. And Puck, who is certainly a Faerie, is always great fun…"

"The threat, John! Can you not stay on topic?"

" _You_ try staying on topic after living with Faeries for a couple hundred years. You think I'm flighty? You should listen to them talk, bouncing around from one thing to another like a bull pup chasing his tail...Say, Sherlock? Will you buy me a bull pup?"

"No. No pets."

"Please," begged John, beginning to glow faintly, as he batted his golden lashes.

"No! I do NOT want any pets. And it's no use trying to use that glamour on me, I can see you glowing and trying to use your magic to sway me."

"Fair enough," said John in a suddenly businesslike tone. The glow faded as he added, "We can talk about pets later."

"No pets ever. Now tell me when we can expect the next attack from the fairies."

John crossed his arms and scowled, looking very much like a disgruntled bull pup himself with his downturned lip and furrowed brow.

"It's for your own good, idiot," said Sherlock, boxing his leprechaun in with his arms. "Think like a soldier. When will this king of yours attack again?"

"I am thinking like a soldier…And I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I wouldn't be trying to get us naked and in bed if I thought we were about to be attacked," said John angrily. "The fact is, no Faerie will be able to find me until the sun sets and rises three times. Mary made me a charm to hide me from them, because she was so very furious that they burned down her house," He dug into his trouser's pocket and pulled out an amulet.

John sniffed at the small leather sac and wrinkled his nose. Meanwhile, Sherlock tried to decide whether to laugh at the charm or whether to be annoyed that John hadn’t thought to tell Sherlock about it right from the beginning.

"It smells bad, like all her charms," added the sprite, unaware of the detective’s thoughts. John shrugged and looped the leather cord over his head. "It contains herbs and bones and probably other gruesome ingredients, like toe nails or eye of newt—or blood…Anyway, I'm supposed to keep this amulet on my person at all times, even though it stinks, which is why it was in my pocket instead of around my neck. I definitely smell something nasty inside."

Sherlock ignored the adorable faces his leprechaun was making as he considered their three-day reprieve. "Three days?" muttered the detective.

"Three sunrises and three sunsets," confirmed John. “It’s a standard contract. We have to count today's sunset as the first one, so that's only two more sunsets before the blue-blooded bastards could come after us. And even though she helped me, it was out of spite and in the end, she may come after too, once Harry lowers her guard. That bitch, I mean witch, is very displeased that I finally fell in love with someone but that it wasn’t her. She’s angry because you’re so wonderful and smart and handsome; jealous she is. In the long run, Mary might be just as much trouble as the Fay, at least until her temper settles down. You know what? I think it would be a good idea to head on over to the coast tomorrow and then try to get a spot on a packet-boat to England. That would put some distance between Mary and us, plus the Faeries shouldn't be able to find me once I leave Eire. They can't cross the ocean you know."

John canted his head to one side, before adding, "Of course there'll be Faeries in England too, but their clans probably won’t want to help the Irish clans. Usually they'd rather fight each other than more than anything. Luckily, the water usually keeps them separated…What are you doing, Sherlock?"

"You said that the damned fairies can't chase you over the Irish Sea."

"This is so. They cannot cross water. Even rivers are well-nigh impossible for them. Most of ‘em won’t even set foot on a bridge," said John, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder as he sat on the edge of the bed, texting rapidly on his mobile phone. "In fact, it was over a hundred years ago, when Puck—I did say that he was great fun—well, he dared me to build a raft...to...to…Wait, you're typing about Aer Lingus on your all-in-one, intelligent mobility telephone, and Aer Lingus is a famous aero-plane company. I've seen their great flying ships sailing across the sky."

"Yes, I'm getting us tickets right now, via the Internet."

"I know all about the Internet," said John. "They have Internet in the village, although I've been reliably informed that it sucks, because it's so slow that you lag when you try to play Halo, which is a game with a giant warrior called Master Chief, who wears colorful armor—actually, he looks like Faerie Champion. I liked watching lads and lasses playing the game, which proves that the game didn’t always lag, right? The young sprouts didn’t like it when I pointed that out, but in general we got along all right. I liked all the explosions and the blue lady; she looked like a water nymph that I befriended once. I always get along with children…well, sometimes I get along with children…They did like it when I gave them fossils and crystals. I never gave them give them gold, of course, because that would be unlucky. Children don’t mind leprechauns. In fact, sometimes children are willing to share their sandwiches and biscuits with a leprechaun. It might be because they always did well on their games when I was around. You see, I usually gave them good luck in exchange for biscuits and crisps. Or sandwiches. Are you almost done working?” 

"Mm," replied Sherlock.

"The Internet is very groovy. Harry says that no one uses the word groovy anymore. But I like it. Anyway, you can ask the Internet Google questions and get amazing answers within seconds, which is pretty fast for a slow, sucky Internet connection, isn't it? Of course, you know all this, don’t you? I can see that you are very Internet Savvy.

“I have noticed that some of Google's answers are wrong, but nobody seems to care. Oh, and you can buy things on the Internet, but _only if_ you have a credit card, which of course I do not," said John, who had by now draped himself over Sherlock's back, wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock's lean torso. "I think your mobility phone is much better than the ones the villagers have. I think your Internet connection is better too—no lagging. Why is that, Sherlock? And do you ever watch porn on your mobility phone, because you can Google porn using the Internet. I always secretly made the Internet lag when I caught children watching porn. Only some of them caught on it was me, so now when their Internet lags, they always say, ‘It’s Johnny pulling his tricks again’. Which is funny because it’s hardly ever my fault…"

Sherlock let John's patter flow over him as he purchased the airline tickets using one of Mycroft's accounts.

"Ohhhhh! You’re buying tickets! To actually fly in an aero-plane," asked John, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. "For me too? I'm coming too?"

Sherlock bestowed the leprechaun with a face that silently shouted, 'Obviously.'

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Mrs. Watson's son flying in an aero-plane to Heathrow Airport!" John's worry lines deepened. "Where's Heathrow Airport? Is it across the sea? Do they speak English or Gaelic or French? I used to know French, but I forgot most of it. I'm sure some of the Heathrovians will know Latin; every educated person learns Latin. You know, I bet they do speak English. Heathrow sounds English to me.”

Sherlock completed the purchase then turned to look at the face now pressed next to his, making him cross-eyed as he tried to focus on the leprechau. “You don't know? You’ve never heard of Heathrow?"

"N-no? Should I have?" asked John, biting his lip and blushing in embarrassment.

"I suppose not," said Sherlock, reminding himself that his enchanted leprechaun had been born two centuries ago and had only kept up with bits of the changing world. "Heathrow is in west London. I thought we would go directly to our flat in London."

But now Sherlock reconsidered. The city of London would probably overwhelm the distractible and overly-curious blond. Sherlock raised two fingers to his lips, thinking.

"A flat in London? That sounds lovely. I never had a flat before. Harry had a flat when she went off to University in Dublin. I didn't see her but once during those years. I think it's splendid that they let girls go to University now. Harry was so smart that it would have been a shame if she had to stay home and tend house for some berk, not to mention she doesn't much care for men," said the blond. "I'm sure I will like living in a flat if you're there. Will we ride in more cabs in London? I like cabs. Do you have an auto-mobile? Can I drive it?"

"But before we go to London, perhaps a stint in the country would be advisable,” said Sherlock.

"But what about the aero-plane? Will you still take me on an aero-plane?”

"We shall fly into Heathrow, then take a car to the countryside."

"Splendid! What kind of car? An auto-mobile car or a railroad car? I never rode in a railroad car. Can we ride in a railroad car to the countryside?"

"It will be a rental car, an automobile," said Sherlock, kissing his leprechaun's cheek absently, "I shall have to ask Mycroft for a favor."

"Mycroft is your fat brother, your arch enemy, the British government and you don't like asking him for favors," said John, who had already confessed about eavesdropping during the search for Paddy O'Brien. "And why are you asking your arch enemy for a favor?”

"It's necessary in order to ensure your safety," said Sherlock, "And I find that I do not mind asking Mycroft for a favor when you require it."

"Really? That's good," agreed John. "You also asked him for papers—you may not realize it, but I can read upside down. Why does he need to get me these papers? I'm clearly British; any one can hear it. Do I really need all those special identity numbers and special papers? And how can your fingers push all those tiny buttons so quickly? Ohh, he's answering! Your fat brother is answering you with little texts. It's like magic. I love Internet magic. What does he mean that you owe him three cases? Cases of what? Cases of wine? I like wine, however, I prefer ale."

"No, not cases of wine, and yes, you do need those papers to prove who you are. You need identification to do most anything nowadays."

"They'll be fake papers, won’t they? Because we probably can’t go around explaining that I’m a two hundred year-old leprechaun. I’ll feel a bit like a fake,” said John. "I'm not sure I'll like that."

"An official identity will be necessary if you're going to accompany me to London."

"Oh! Oh, I'll use the papers of course, luv," assured John quickly. "Anything you want, I’ll do! I’d do anything to stay with you, my heart. I was just saying that I wouldn’t like using them. By the way, you didn’t say—cases of what?"

Sherlock rewarded the leprechaun with another kiss, just happy that the sprite wanted to stay with him. "And the cases refer to the Work. I solve mysteries and track down missing items—or people. I will have to solve three of his cases in return for your identity papers, which will be waiting for us at the local airport. He will also rent a cottage for us in Sussex," explained Sherlock, patting the blond's bare arm, which was still tightly wrapped around him. "Since he isn't demanding a case in exchange for the house, I suspect that it's a trap. He's going to insist on meeting you. You have my permission to curse him with bunions if he bothers us.”

"Sherlock! You shouldn’t ask me to curse your own brother, especially when he’s helping us," muttered John reprovingly. Then he added pragmatically, “At least you shouldn’t have him cursed, until after you don’t need his help anymore…Oh, his Internet texting says he's renting you a car. Can I have a turn driving your rental?"

"No," said Sherlock instantly. The detective turned around to ensure that he had John’s full attention. "You will _not_ attempt to drive the rental car—or any other car—or any vehicle at all. I want you to give me your word on this."

Sherlock had a vivid imagination and he could easily imagine the leprechaun barreling down the road behind the wheel of a car, nattering on about crones and fairies and not even noticing an oncoming lorry...

John sighed, and rested his head on the brunet's shoulder. "Yes, all right. I won't drive a car. It still sounds like it would be great fun. We can talk about it later," said the leprechaun, breathing soft kisses against Sherlock's neck. "And will we at least solve cases…when we’re in Sussex?" asked John.

"We will if we're lucky," said the detective.

"Mmm," hummed the leprechaun happily. “I’m actually pretty good with luck…for other people, not so much for myself, so I guess we’ll find some cases then.” 

Sherlock checked his phone one last time before turning around and taking John into his arms. "We will fly back to England tomorrow morning, long before your fairies come after us. On the way to the airport, I shall purchase some clean clothes for both of us. I will not risk returning to that village to retrieve my belongings, in case your fairies have set a trap—it’s what I’d do,” said the detective, replying to John’s inquiring glance. “If Lestrade hasn't returned to London already, perhaps he will collect my belongings. He owes me a favor—several favors, in fact.”

"You are going to buy me clothing?" asked John. "And you’ve already bought me a ticket to ride on the aero-plane?”

"Yes, of course..." said Sherlock.

"Then you've gifted me."

"Obviously."

"You've gifted me. And now I really am yours."

Sherlock blinked, “And those two statements are related—how?

"It's how things are done. At least, it's how things are done in Faerie. I have to be honest, sometimes I forget how things are done here...and things have changed here anyway, which can be a bit confusing—but also exciting.”

"I can see that," said Sherlock. "But what the significance of gifts?"

"Well, it's like a bride price, isn't it?" said John. "Except I'm not strictly a bride. Still, you've paid the price, and now I'm yours...unless...you don't want me."

"Idiot. Of course I want you," said Sherlock, staring into John's dark blue eyes. "I'm glad that you are mine. But John, don't you have to reciprocate? Do you need to buy me something?"

"Don't be silly, Sherlock. Only one of us can be the bride. Of course, as I said, I'm not really going to be a bride. For one thing, I won't wear a dress, not even for you," John spoke very seriously. "Besides, I already created a living heart and gave it to you. That's worth quite a lot in Faerie, and it would be gross excess for me to gift you more just now. Balance is very important, especially when magic is involved. The Crone taught me that.” 

"Ah," said Sherlock. The thought of John caring so much that he delivered his heart into the hands of a sociopath overwhelmed Sherlock. Fortunately, the detective never cried, so he knew his eyes weren't really tearing up even if his vision seemed to swim momentarily.

"But even though you've gifted me with tickets, I hope you will buy me a gelatin treat tomorrow," said John gravely. He wrapped his arms even tighter around the detective, and planted a kiss on his lips. “I really like those fruity treats—as long as they don’t put banana’s inside the dessert. I don’t like banana’s very much, and I certainly don’t want them in my gelatin.”

Sherlock ended John’s discourse on gelatin by placing his lips over John’s. Judging the parting of his lips, the leprechaun seemed perfectly content to forget about gelatin with or without bananas. They thoroughly explored each other's mouths, as their arms held each other as close as possible.

The detective eventually paused to murmur into his leprechaun's mouth, "And why...should I purchase a gelatin snack for you, John? Does it carry a special significance too?"

John stopped to look curiously at his detective. "What significance could a gelatin treat possibly have? We're just going to eat it. Gelatin is a wonderful treat, and it will remind us of all the other delicious hospital food that we enjoyed.

"You are a very strange man, John Watson," said Sherlock, shaking his head.

"It's probably because I'm not really a man; I'm a leprechaun. I don't understand how a genius like you keeps forgetting that," said John, climbing onto the taller man's lap and unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. "I'm your leprechaun, and I think we should have carnal knowledge of each other as soon as possible."

"Mmmmm, yes," said Sherlock, toppling backwards. As he fell, he pulled the leprechaun on top of himself, losing himself in the magic of John's kisses and the glow of John's love.

**Author's Notes**

* ‘When the glass drops’ refers to changes in the weather. It's based on old-style, mercury-filled glass barometers, which rise and fall based on changes in air pressure, which are used to predict storms and weather changes. Many people claim that they can sense changes in air pressure via the aches and pains in the sites of old injuries, bad joints or even their sinuses. 

* _Bean sí_ is Celtic for banshee according to my supernatural sources—with a little help from various Internet sources.

(As always, if I’ve gotten something wrong, please let me know, and I’ll try to fix it with some pixie dust. If that doesn't work, I suppose I can use my laptop to edit my mistakes). Love to you all for reading my story and for supporting John!lock. :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments are welcomed. Two more chapters remain.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more talking. Sorry, I like talky chapters. Also smut. I sometimes like smut too. Anyway, this is where the story earns its Mature rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank Old Ping Hai for helping me edit this story and for forcing me to finish what I started when the muse deserted me. Oh that fickle muse!
> 
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> My apolgies for the delay.
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> 
> Also please note that while I do not know any Gaelic, internet sources state that— _a chroí_ means my heart and _a ghrá_ means my heart. If I am mistaken, please let me know and I will correct my errors.
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> I do not own the rights to Sherlock or any of the BBC characters from Sherlock.

**Chapter 8**

The leprechaun's hands tangled in Sherlock's curls, pulling him into a bruising kiss before sweeping his tongue into Sherlock's waiting mouth. The detective felt calloused fingers grip his neck and scalp, while magical lips bewitched him with deep, languid kisses.

In the past, Sherlock had become more annoyed than aroused when people touched him. He hated hugs and kisses and avoided cuddling like the plague. On the few occasions when he was forced to give in to his transport's demand for sexual gratification, the intercourse was quick, perfunctory, and he always made sure that he'd never have to see his sexual partner again.

But it was different now. He liked John's touch. He craved John's touch as much or more than he’d craved drugs—from the tiniest brush of lips to a full body embrace. Sherlock loved the feel of his leprechaun pressing up against him. John left trails of fire wherever he touched the detective. Sherlock even liked the way the gold-colored fuzz on John's chest tickled his bare skin or the way the fine stubble on John’s chin scratched his cheek and neck. There was also John’s arousal—hard, hot and pressing insistently against Sherlock's hip.

John touched Sherlock tenderly as if Sherlock were the great prize and not the other way around. His shorter fingers—covered with faint scars and calluses—traced the detective’s long jaw, then his sharp, jutting cheekbones. Sherlock had always hated his jaw and thought his cheekbones looked ridiculous (Sharp enough to cut cheese, the other kids had teased). But John seemed to like them, given the way he first touched and then kissed them, with reverence and adoration. Now the younger man was happy that he had features that John found attractive. 

Sherlock caught John's roving hand and brought it back down to his mouth, kissing each fingertip one by one, taking the time to taste them and catalogue the marks of a hard life. (But _two hundred_ years of hard living? Sherlock had his doubts about the time scale—not that it mattered, not right now.) He sucked on the index finger slowly, tasting tea salt, and wild growing things. He hoped to show John that Sherlock treasured the leprechaun too.

One or both of them moaned with delight, and then they crashed together for another kiss. Tongues tangled in John's mouth and then in Sherlock's, then back to John's mouth.

Sherlock relished the taste of his leprechaun's mouth with its hints of tea (tea, always more tea), mint and summer breezes. Although a tiny rational remnant of the genius's great brain wondered how one could taste a breeze or why a man, even a leprechaun would taste like mint or _‘growing things’_. The less rational part of Sherlock, the part that had once wanted to be a pirate, told his logical half to stuff itself in a mind closet for the foreseeable future.

The World's Only Consulting detective investigated his lover with his lips, his tongue and now, too, with his sensitive musician’s hands. It seemed as though Sherlock couldn't feel enough of John as quickly as he needed to, and his hands roamed frantically, trying to explore and memorize all of John at once. His fingers combed through John's hair (silky, smooth, short—perhaps he could convince the blond to let it grow out a bit). He caressed his sprite's face (soft, with small scars and scratchy bristles—John needed to shave—but not until later—much, much later) and mouthed over his neck (surprisingly soft away from the aforementioned stubble, soft and oh-so vulnerable— just waiting to be marked by Sherlock’s teeth).

Sherlock’s repressed inner artist couldn't resist this blank canvas. He lapped at the tender flesh under John's jaw, then bit hard enough to leave his signature in the form of a bruise. John gasped arching closer and turning his head aside, as though offering more skin to mark. 

Sherlock smirked without lifting his lips from John's exposed throat, and then sucked hard over the bite, reinforcing his claim for all to see.

_'Look,'_ the love bite proclaimed, _'this is Sherlock's leprechaun. He chose me. He’s mine.'_ He hoped it might help keep everyone away from _his John_ , especially all those supernatural beings who clearly desired the leprechaun—from that horrible little blond witch with her ugly red lipstick, to the supposedly handsome and gentlemanly Death, and not forgetting the fairy king, who had imprisoned John and then stolen John's heart (which was also difficult to believe).

His lips tenderly caressed what promised to be a lovely, lurid bruise, then skimmed over stubbled skin to reach John's soft, waiting lips. Another kiss, no make that two, sucking on lips and tongue, conquering that mouth. Part of him wanted to kiss John all night.

But there was so much left to taste, he turned the pliable blond’s head to nuzzle and nip under John’s perfectly delectable ears, inhaling more of John’s unique out-of-doors scent (Did it come from a bottle? Or was it soap—some homemade soap, brewed in the village? Perhaps it was a fairy perfume?) The leprechaun’s hair was redolent of grassy sunlit meadows, his skin held the scent of sand. Amidst his investigations, the detective also discovered that John was _very_ ticklish under his arms. Sherlock sniffed and snuffled with unwonted abandon, relishing the tannin-rich fragrance the blond’s surprisingly high-pitched squeaks and giggles.

Sherlock loved those sound of John’s laughter. He particularly loved that he was the cause of such merriment. He tickled John more, just to keep the boyish giggles ringing in his ears. Oddly, even John's laughter had a scent all its own, reminding the detective of dewy herbs, crushed under bare feet. 

None of this made any _logical_ sense, but Sherlock Holmes didn’t bloody care. He was enjoying the illogical sensations. They felt right; this felt right, and for once, he was going to follow his feelings. Logic was relegated back to the closet in the basement of his mind palace.

John's giggles petered out as he gasped for breath, while his sturdy arms pushed Sherlock away from John's ticklish spot. Sherlock smiled, looking into dark blue, adoring eyes. John grinned back so hard that it must have hurt. It certainly hurt to see such a brilliant, loving look directed at the heretofore-unlovable detective.

Sherlock kissed his beloved sprite and threw away the key to the closet in his mind palace. He was pretty sure that he'd never want to be rational again.

John wriggled beneath him, so that his magical lips could reach Sherlock's neck, he lavished his human lover with kisses and bites. His bites were relatively gentle. Unlike the detective, he was unwilling to mar his partner with lurid love bites. And all the while the leprechaun murmured prayers of reverence and devotion against the brunet's long, pale throat.

Sherlock lent half an ear. John might have been uttering so-called sweet nothings; that's what people did, didn't they? Then again, maybe John was just babbling; or perhaps he really was reciting prayers or even incantations—the genius could hardly tell, as most of it was uttered in some foreign tongue, which was possibly Celtic or even the language of the fairies? Later (much, much later) he would have to research it. 

John kissed his neck, shoulders and clavicles, seemingly determined to taste and touch every inch of Sherlock just as Sherlock wanted to explore the leprechaun. The detective canted his head to one side, to facilitate the other’s research, but his the leprechaun, to explore his back, pressing up firmly (nearly raising the blond off the mattress). He mapped out bones and muscles as thoroughly as a pathologist. Then his focus skimmed back to the surface, discovering many more raised scars—hard, cool raised knots and cords and tiny divots against the softer expanse. Mostly they were smooth and worn with time—hard, cool to the touch—clearly, old scars, whose provenance Sherlock didn't yet know. The detective _would_ eventually discover the source of these past injuries. More importantly, he would make it his business to ensure that John Watson was properly protected from further harm. Feeling long, thick stripes that spoke of a cruel lash wielded by a heavy hand, the detective wondered if it was too late to plot revenge against the person—or being—who had punished _his_ John with a bloody whip. Like the others, this thought was carefully filed away for later reference.

Sherlock was jolted back to the matter at hand when John groaned into Sherlock's shoulder as he rocked himself against Sherlock’s clothing covered erection. To encourage his lover, the brunet’s hands grabbed the sprite’s firm buttocks…and squeezed. The blond closed his eyes, moaned and then _wriggled_ backwards into the his lover’s grasp.

'Mm," hummed Sherlock, clutching those lovely mounds of flesh. He wouldn’t mind placing a few more judicious bruises on his leprechaun. Marking John's buttocks seemed only prudent...and delightfully naughty. He’d begin with leaving his fingerprints—so to speak.

John didn't mind either, because he hummed a breathy little, "Mmmmm," in approval as Sherlock's large hands thoroughly kneaded his arse.

The leprechaun rocked and circled his hips while his mouth peppered his lover’s jaw with more proof of his adoration.

Using English, the blond breathed into the curls behind one ear, "Beautiful, gorgeous, brilliant man.” Then, “My brilliant heart. Heart o' gold.” John's praise once more became unintelligible as he nibbled the ear tenderly, and his words lapsed into that other language. The leprechaun's hips never slowed their seductive dance grinding against Sherlock's arousal.

"And you…" gasped the detective, "you too are beautiful to me…John."

Sherlock obviously wasn’t very good with pillow talk, because John began to giggle again.

"Me?" John sputtered, "Me? That's silly." He sat up, tumbling Sherlock aside and holding his sides as he laughed. "I'm not beautiful. I'm not pretty at all," he gasped in between laughter. "I was always plain, and now I'm plain and old and scarred.” 

"Idiot," growled Sherlock, grabbing an arm possessively. "You are beautiful. You are beautiful to me. You are the most gorgeous man I have ever met, and you are mine."

“Me?” asked John incredulously. His laughter faded and his pupils dilated anew, leaving his eyes as dark as the night sky. John bit his lower lip and licked it, beckoning the detective without words.

Sherlock tugged until the sprite fell, sprawling onto the brunet's lean, broad chest. He claimed John's lips, sucking on the lower one, the one that kept calling to him—the one that begged to be bitten. So he bit it, sucked on it and bit it again.

John clutched the detective's arms like a drowning man. He moaned into Sherlock's demanding mouth, murmuring once more in his alien tongue.

'It _must_ be the fairy language,' thought Sherlock. Normally, he'd be curious and driven to learn the language—about an entire new world, which just begged to be explored. However, he was too busy exploring and claiming his leprechaun. So, he captured John's words in his own mouth, while saving them in his mind palace for much, much later—along with the rest of the files. 

Sherlock felt the need to possess this rare and wonderful being, and he rolled them over, so that he was back on top. They broke their lip lock to grin at one another, and then with his usual debonair grace, Sherlock loosened his belt and trousers with one hand, while caressing John's chest. He found to his delight that John’s nipples were wonderfully responsive to touch, just like the rest of the sprite. The detective continued teasing a tender nub with one hand, while he smoothly lowered his zipper with the other—the entire time seducing the rapt leprechaun with his signature smirk and half-hooded eyes.

John shuddered and raised his hands to help the man out of his clothing. Suddenly Sherlock found that it was difficult to remove well tailored-trousers while straddling a squirming leprechaun, whose not so helpful hands kept getting in the way.

The brunet shifted his weight to slide the trousers past his knobby knees. John twisted and tugged on the trousers too, and managed to entangle Sherlock in his close-fitting clothing. 

"John, let go…let go of my trousers! John, you're making it worse," complained Sherlock, kicking his legs in the air to free himself. John giggled impishly as the brunet flailed about.

Sherlock's face became a study in mingled irritation and mirth. He turned away from the ludicrous leprechaun in a vain attempt to preserve his dignity.

The brilliant genius quickly deduced that there was nothing for it but to roll off the bed to free himself of his knotted clothes. He rolled aside, managing to at least land on his feet. He shimmied and hopped in a decidedly undignified dance, trying to pull down his too-tight trousers. The leprechaun chortled gleefully, while effortlessly removing his own oversized, hand-me-down trousers, which were tossed carelessly into a corner. The leprechaun sat up to watch Sherlock’s awkward strip tease, while wearing only a wicked grin.

Despite his irritation and no little embarrassment, Sherlock found John's laughter infectious; eventually his deep-throated chuckles mingled with John's boyish giggles. By the time the tall brunet climbed back onto the bed he was grinning as widely as the rosy-cheeked sprite.

Sherlock gazed down, admiring his prize. John truly was beautiful to the love-starved detective. His open, honest face radiated love and adoration, a more certain aphrodisiac than any potion concocted by witches or scientists. As far as Sherlock was concerned, even fairy glamour could not have made John Watson any more beautiful than he already was.

Sherlock's gaze traveled from his lover's tousled blond-brown-grey hair to his glittering midnight-blue eyes to the flushed skin, covering his nicely fit, compact form. His eyes meandered south, following a darker trail of golden-brown hair, stopping at the sight of his leprechaun's tumescent arousal.

"Gorgeous," murmured the besotted human. "You are the very opposite of plain. You, my John, are breathtaking," he whispered to the leprechaun, sprawling shamelessly beneath him. Sherlock slowly stroked himself taking the edge off his painful desire as his mind whirled with all the ways that he wanted John.

John's giggles died out and his smile faded into an oh of rapt attention, as he watched Sherlock touching himself.

Meeting his lover’s hungry stare, the detective's lips turned up into a naughty smirk. He loomed over the blond, dragging his flesh across John's. The leprechaun arched up, groaning as flesh met flesh at last. Sherlock growled in response and then lowered his head to once again ravage the smaller man's neck like a starving man at a feast.

"Yesss, oh yes," crooned John, sliding his hands down the younger man's sides, caressing, searching, honoring his beloved.

The leprechaun reached further down, partly encircling their members with one hand.

"Oh God…yess."

"Please."

And, "More, more," they murmured to one another.

"Mine."

"Ohh, Gaawwwd."

"My heart. My love."

"Mine, say you are mine."

"Yes, yours."

"Forever!"

"Yes…only yours."

"Yes," poured from their mouths, as skin ignited skin and every touch inflamed the other.

And the friction was good, so very good, thought the detective, as they rutted within the confines of John's hand.

Sherlock, supporting his weight on one elbow, used his free hand to hold his lover's head still as he attacked John's mouth again, taking in the hot, sweet taste of John, tea flavored with the taste of summer storms and wind-swept downs.

The leprechaun parted his lips, welcoming Sherlock's tongue, sucking on it, and twining both their tongues together. They shared desperate breaths, John swallowing the taller man's rumbled groans, Sherlock swallowing John's garbled endearments in whatever language they were uttered.

"I have oil!" announced John, seemingly apropos of nothing.

"Ermm," said the genius, "What?"

'Oil. It's what you humans use…when buggering one another, isn't it?" asked John rather breathlessly. "I remember from when I was in the army. One heard rumors, you know? And I heard that the lads used oil. Only I never knew a man… _in that way_. Although I admit I was interested. You understand, back in my day, when I was human, it was illegal to lie with another man. It never seemed worth risking one or both of us going to prison or hanging on the gibbet, for a quick roll in the hay. Not when there were plenty of lovely, willing wenches available. Besides, I was never in love with anyone, man or woman so it never really mattered.

“I did think that it was wrong to punish men for lying with men, and I never told about the ones who did. In fact, I hid a couple of my friends, because I’d be damned if I’d see a friend of mine punished wrongly. But now it's legal, which is very fortunate, because I am in love for the first time ever and it’s a man, meaning you, of course. And I’d risk anything for you and to be with you, except I wouldn’t risk your life…”

“John,” said Sherlock trying to stop his leprechaun’s rush of words. (Not that they weren’t important, but they’d have to wait for later). 

“Well, I would never risk your life. I’d sell myself to the devil to save you, Sherlock Holmes. You’re my heart.”

“Yes, and…” the brunet began. 

“But you mustn’t keep talking, Sherlock. We’ve discussed enough for now. What we really need to do is to consummate the bond that you made when you gifted me. Which brings me back to the oil.”

“Thank God,” muttered Sherlock, even if he was an atheist.

“Yes, thankfully we can use the oil, which I borrowed from Mary before all the commotion started. It’s probably better if we never tell her,” said John, waving a half-empty bottle of olive oil in front of Sherlock's face.

"Ah. Um. Ah," said the normally incisive genius, mesmerized by the thought of that oil on his flesh, on John’s flesh…perhaps…over John’s entrance.

"I borrowed the oil just in case, after Mary's witchy lair burnt down. In case we…well...you do want to sodomize me, don't you?” said John, rising up on one elbow and narrowing his eyes as though doubting Sherlock's desire.

Sherlock thought John's doubt was ridiculous, given the size of Sherlock's erection. Still, the detective hadn't seriously thought they were ready for this step. He'd thought perhaps later…but then again, he really did want to sodomize the leprechaun who was frowning hard enough to turn his forehead into a washboard; he wanted to sodomize the shorter man all the way into tomorrow. But safety first, he didn’t want to hurt the leprechaun. And there were contagions to consider as well.

"We don't have condoms, John," said Sherlock, trying to smooth the frown off his lover's face. The frown did indeed disappear, but only because the leprechaun had a new thought, "Oh! Condoms! No, we don't need condoms, love. I can't get pregnant tonight, and we are both perfectly healthy…"

"I am ill-suited to being the practical, safety-minded man in any discussion; however, until we are tested…"

"I'm a _healer._ Perhaps you’ve forgotten this. I've _been_ a healer since before your grandparents were born. And today I proved that I am a very _powerful_ healer. And I'm telling you, as a very powerful healer, that we are both perfectly healthy."

"You can magically able to detect bacteria and viruses? But they weren’t even identified when you were a doctor,” Sherlock exclaimed.

"Certainly!” grumbled the now-affronted very powerful healer. "I most certainly can detect those tiny animalcules, which you call germs. And I can heal them. I've been healing the many maladies of Venus for two centuries—give or take a few decades because time runs erratically in Faerie. I can cure the pox, lice, even AIDS, and I bet you didn’t think I knew about that, did you? I'll have you know that I healed a local lad who had AIDS, in exchange for some books and a kiss from his mum; she had a lovely smile, Moira did. I also healed a werewolf who had AIDS in exchange for which he agreed not to eat me, which under the circumstances seemed very fair to me."

"Indeed?" asked Sherlock, ignoring the casual reference to werewolves, "I admit that I am a bit surprised to find that you are aware of AIDS."

"That village was a bit remote, Sherlock, but it wasn't 'off the grid' as you modern folk like to say," said John, looking pleased with his modern turn of phrase. “It’s been on the grid for years now.”

"The point is that I can tell you whether you are harboring any diseases, which you are not," said John. "It's actually fairly easy to detect disease in humans; it's is a bit harder to detect in werewolves and the Fae, but I've gotten the hang of it over the years. I recall that the werewolf, the one who had AIDS, presented a bit of a challenge, especially as he was sitting on my chest about to bite my head off, but I..."

"John."

"Yes?"

"I defer to your greater expertise. Forget the condoms."

“Yes!"

"And we will use the olive oil although it will make you smell like a salad."

"Salad?" repeated John, frowning at the implied insult. "Well, _excuse me_. I'm sorry that I didn't have the opportunity to borrow a more appropriate lubricant for buggery, what with having to heal my own shoulder and what with having to fight off the bloody blue-blooded, sword wielding Faeries. We’re lucky that I saw the oil on the counter, before Harry made me leave the burning house. I had been after some ambergris, which I know Mary hid in one of her crocks. Sadly, I was forced to leave without it, and I’m sure I’ll be wanting some someday…”

"John."

"Hmm?"

"Give me the oil now."

"Oh, God, yes!" gasped John, thrusting the bottle of olive oil at Sherlock. Trembling with excitement, the blond sprite began kissing every available inch of his lover's skin. His eager lips worshiped neck, jaw, chest, nipples (which tickled) and arms. He wanted to kiss Sherlock's hands too, but they were busy with the oil.

John's attentions were pleasing and distracting, but the younger man was now determined to, as John liked to say, bugger his leprechaun. He drizzled oil over his fingers, then spread it onto John's perineum, gently massaging the sensitive skin.

"Oh! Oh, yes…" murmured John. His kisses stuttered erratically and came to a stop, dropping his head back and hiking his hips up towards his lover.

Sherlock took his time, enjoying the feel of the oil sliding over John's skin, especially when he began to circle the pucker of John's entrance. He’d certainly never enjoyed this part of his infrequent assignations before, finding it tedious. Tonight, watching John writhe under his ministrations, he relished the activity, wanting to prolong the sweet tension as long as possible. Which might not be that long, given the throbbing ache coming from his own groin. 

John raised one hand, and played with Sherlock's hair, tugging it occasionally. His other hand clenched the sheets tightly, as though to ground himself.

"Oh, my heart," murmured the sprite, "Take me now…please."

"But…"

"Shoosh!" said Sherlock, surprising himself with the use of such a nonsensical word. John raised his head a few inches and scowled at being shooshed. Then the leprechaun giggled and planted a few kisses on the taller man’s shoulders and chest. All while muttering in his fay tongue. Sherlock picked out a few words like _a chroí, a ghrá,_ probably because they were repeated almost as often as the detective’s name.

Sherlock recalled an instance when he had suffered discomfort when bottoming and would never allow his impatient golden leprechaun to suffer similar pain. So he went slowly. In the meantime, his free hand began to rub oil over a hard, pink, very sensitive nipple, distracting John from the delay. Hopefully, it would also distract him from the burn of the imminent penetration.

The detective added the warning, "John, this might hurt a bit…"

"No, it won't."

Smiling at his brave and endearingly eager ex-soldier, Sherlock slowly pressed the tip of his finger inside.

John gasped. "Oh! Oh! It does hurt. Bloody…Shite! Oh, bloody hell!" John grunted and panted in pain, his face crinkling in dismay. Then, before Sherlock could change his mind and pull away, the sprite quickly added, "A bit. It does hurt…just a bit…but I've had worse. And it's…um…it’s getting better. Yes, it's all good now."

The leprechaun was worried that Sherlock would refuse to continue, which was, in fact, a real possibility, because Sherlock had promised himself to protect his leprechaun.

"No, no, no. Don't stop, my heart. Please. Please don't stop," babbled the leprechaun, "but maybe just go…kind of slow, yeah?"

The World's Only Consulting Detective didn’t withdraw the offending digit, waiting until John exhaled and then nodded. Only then did Sherlock press on with exquisite care.

The sprite slowly relaxed and seemed to find penetration pleasurable, even nodding and begging for more. Sherlock could see that the leprechaun only feigned enjoyment with the addition of a second finger, and the detective was ready to end this farce and pleasure his lover some other way. And, being a genius, Sherlock could readily think of twenty-six different ways to pleasure his enchanted lover just using himself and the materials at hand. No, make that twenty-seven ways.

Then his fingers, now numbering two, bent and curled, finding John's sweet spot.

The leprechaun cried out softly and not in pain, murmuring in his alien speech. John stared at Sherlock from under his lust filled, half-closed eyes and once more writhing sensuously at Sherlock's touch. He finally whispered in English, "Oh, I never…I never knew…how wonderful...Please, please, don’t stop. Oh, my heart, _a chroí_. It’s…brilliant! Ahh, pleaaase, please…"

John drove himself down on the brunet's fingers, twisting as he sought to assuage his need, yet he never made a move to touch his own red, engorged flesh. Tossing his head from side to side, he begged between breaths using a polyglot of English, badly pronounced French and what was a variant of Gaelic and almost certainly the fairy language, thought Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn’t understand his lover’s gibberish, but he easily deduced what his gorgeous spite required. He rubbed his fingertips once again over the nerve-laden gland, forcing John to shudder and spread his legs wider.

Meanwhile, Sherlock himself ached with need; his own throbbing member was hard as carbon steel. Seeing his leprechaun undone, hearing him beg, inflamed the younger man's desire into burning agony.

He _would_ have this man…his leprechaun…now. The twenty-seven other ways of pleasing John would have to wait. Need was paramount. His preparation of John must be completed immediately; Sherlock had to claim his lover with an urgency that eclipsed any other need that he'd ever had. But frustratingly, he couldn't hurt his precious sprite, and he had to accomplish this without coming prematurely and ruining their first night of sex. He couldn't bear to think of John's possible disappointment or, worse, John's possible contempt if Sherlock ejaculated prematurely.

For a few moments, the World's Only Consulting Genius forced himself to ignore John's wandering caresses and the sight of John’s beautiful sweat-slick golden body, which the sprite offered willingly—indeed, wantonly. 

Instead, Sherlock distracted himself back from the edge. He thought about twenty-seven ways to sabotage Mycroft's diet, while completing his lover's preparation. The detective visualized icing and cake crumbs defiling one of Mycroft's ridiculously expensive three-piece suits, and all the while, Sherlock's fingers delved, scissored and opened his lover, carefully ensuring that John would suffer no pain when his lover took him at last.

Sherlock had finally decided which of his many choices would be first used against Mycroft. It lacked subtlety, but it would be effective. Sherlock would enroll his sibling in the Cake of the Month Club. Immediately after making this decision, he also deemed that his sweet lover was ready. His long musician's fingers had played John with unerring precision, opening him while teasing him to a fever pitch.

The sprite also felt that he was ready; he gripped both of Sherlock's arms, pulling himself up and gasping, "Now…it's time. Do it! Do it now!"

Sherlock nodded with an upward twist of his lips. It was, indeed, time. Even the genius with adamantine self-control could wait no longer. The brunet slowly removed his fingers—slowly, so as not to hurt John. Besides, the sight of his fingers withdrawing from the blond was entrancing and frankly obscene and deserved to be relished properly.

"It _is_ time," he growled, holding his face just inches away from John's. "It is most definitely time. You are _mine_ , John Watson."

John's eyes lit up with a wild mixture of hunger and adoration, gasping out a breathy, "Yes! Yours, _a chroí_ , yours!"

Sherlock pushed his lover back down and poured more oil over John's reddened entrance and over his own swollen member. His strong hands tugged at John's hips, raising them onto a pillow and pushing John's legs to further to each side.

But Sherlock hesitated. What if John wasn't _quite_ ready? He couldn't bear to hurt this man whose skin bore countless scars; hadn't John been hurt enough in the past week, let alone over the past two hundred years?

"Sherlock!" John demanded.

"John, I don't want to hurt you," said Sherlock softly.

And the leprechaun blinked. His mouth moved, unable to speak in his confusion. Then he raised a hand to caress the younger man's cheek. "You…you're worried about hurting me?"

"Of course!" snapped Sherlock, blushing with irritation and embarrassment.

This was awkward, thought the detective. John lay open and inviting and Sherlock was kneeling between his legs, with his member resting heavily, obscenely on John's thigh, and John wanted to start another discussion? Why was his leprechaun so very distractible?

"John, perhaps we could continue…"

"You care," murmured John, as if he were the one bewitched, "you actually care about me."

"Idiot! Of course I care!" growled Sherlock. "I wouldn't be here, preparing to roger you otherwise."

"…sex?" Sherlock impatiently finished the question. "Yes, and if you can stop nattering on, I will be able to thoroughly roger you."

"Oh God, yes. Roger me now," John earnestly suggested, tilting his hips up in blatant invitation.

"You _will_ tell me if I'm hurting you," Sherlock demanded.

John nodded, as his hands reverently slid up and down Sherlock's long, lean arms.

The taller man bent low, rewarding his sprite with a fierce, open-mouthed kiss. Their tongues met in another faux battle that neither one truly wanted to win. At last, Sherlock's aching member slowly breached John's nether entrance.

Both men gasped into each other's mouths. From his shut-eyed grimace and ecstatic groan, Sherlock deuced that his lover had gasped in pain-tinged pleasure. Sherlock had gasped because the glide of his flesh into John's heat had nearly undone him. So the younger man instinctively paused for several breaths, allowing them each to adjust to this consummation.

The ex-army doctor moved first. His breath released in a shuddering sigh, and John began to slowly drive himself onto Sherlock's rigid flesh. The detective watched in a haze of arousal and wonderment as his flesh slipped into this miraculous being.

The slide was tortuously good, bringing more painful arousal and a sense of imminent relief. Sherlock lost himself to sensation as he buried himself in his beloved. Heat and pressure engulfed him with bliss, as he finally drove home, and their groins met—skin kissing skin.

Sherlock sighed, and slowly pulled back until he was nearly out. Then he pushed back in, biting his lip to keep from shouting in victory against all his challengers—meaning everyone on his List of Beings Who Had Shagged John or Wanted to Shag John. Also known as the list of those who will die if they come near John—because John was _his_ now. Sherlock would give his sprite up to no one.

He also bit down on his lip because the slight pain helped to keep his own climax at bay.

"John," he whispered," raising his eyes to John's face.

Dark blue eyes met his, glowing with an eldritch fire.

Sherlock found beauty and hunger in his leprechaun's eyes. So much beauty, and all for Sherlock Holmes? It was overwhelming, and Sherlock's vision faltered, even as he pulled John's leg up and over his shoulder. The detective shut his eyes and set a vicious pace, pounding relentlessly into John as primal need drove him to claim his mate.

In between shallow gasps for air, John keened arching up to take in his lover's offering. The delicious sound coming out of John tempted Sherlock to open his eyes. He shook his head to clear his sex-dazed vision because it looked as if John glowed with hues of rosy-gold, then gleamed with hints of silver-green—'like a leprechaun in a rainbow,' supplied Sherlock's lust-addled mind. Sherlock chose to ignore the fantasy of John's colorful glowing as well as the imagined smells of roses, fresh-mown grass or the smell of rain falling on the ground in springtime.

John's attempts to meet Sherlock's thrusts faltered, and he lost his rhythm. His eyes shut tight hiding the fire in his eyes. The glow had vanished. Sherlock kept pistoning in—surely hitting the John's sweet spot, given the way the blond shuddered with each thrust. Sherlock grasped his lover's firm, purple member and stroked it once, twice and over again.

John said, "Oh, Sherlock," so softly that his lover barely heard it. “Oh, my heart.”

Then the leprechaun threw back his head and seemed to burst into flames that neither burned nor consumed the lovers. The grey in John’s hair turned silver, the blond became gold. The fay sprite shimmered and pulsed like the aurora. And yet he was still part human; he moaned his expressive face creased as ecstasy overcame him. John’s hot seed over poured over Sherlock's hand, and left fiery trails over the lovers’ skin.

Still slamming into his lover, Sherlock bent to capture John's soft mouth, taking in the last of the leprechaun's rapturous groans and inhaling the scents of loam and herbs on his lover's breath.

His hips drove ever harder as John clenched around him. The pressure and the heat traveled from his cock to his loins. The fire coiled inside him, spreading into his veins, his nerves and back to his pulsing member. He pounded into John, driving them both backwards along the bed.

And the molten passion, which Sherlock had so long denied, erupted. He grunted once, emptying into his shuddering sprite. John clung to him, crying out—more a ragged scream—as his member pulsed weakly in an unexpected, second climax, producing little semen but somehow adding to the colorful aura surrounding them.

They clung to one another as they rode the waves of shared exaltation.

His arms shook and Sherlock lowered himself onto his beloved leprechaun, careful not to crush the shorter man. He tucked his face into his lover's neck and slid his arm underneath the blond, drawing John even closer. He hugged him so tight that it made breathing nearly impossible for either of them. But John didn't seem to mind, and Sherlock Holmes hardly cared about breathing. Breathing was boring.

John was not boring. John was the new center of Sherlock's universe. Sherlock held the leprechaun securely against his chest so that their hearts could beat together as one. And as he absently counted their heartbeats, which were truly in synch, his mind sluggishly began to re-booted.

Now that lust was satisfied, he realized belatedly that some supernatural bargain had been sealed with his so-called gifting and their subsequent intercourse. 

He wasn’t precisely worried, just so long as the magical contract meant that John was his. 

The detective, always curious about scientific phenomena, wondered at the significance of the shimmering lights. Bah, thought the detective, there are no lights. The _appearance_ of lights was part of a hormone-induced fantasy, because John only ever glowed golden. Surely the leprechaun didn’t radiate colors like superheated plasma. The lights didn't matter, just so long as John was his. Nothing mattered except that John belonged to him. Sherlock was happy.

Despite Sherlock's doubts concerning the necessity of breathing, his transport disagreed. Without conscious volition, Sherlock loosened his arms and turned his head away from John's bewitching skin (which smelled uncannily of Sherlock's grandmother's garden), and the brunet gulped down refreshing draughts of air. The drowsy, satiated detective didn't find it odd that the air of the room still shivered faintly with silver, rose and golden light. Nor did it seem unusual that the lights smelled of flowers and crushed leaves. Indeed, those smells were probably what had reminded him of his grandmother's garden in the first place.

It was good. It was all very, very good. Sherlock drifted off to sleep listening to his lover whisper happily about love using English, truly atrocious French and using his funny, unfamiliar, fairy-ish tongue—unfamiliar except for one word, _a chroí_. Sherlock knew that _a chroí_ meant him; it meant _Sherlock_. John was whispering about Sherlock and love, and that was very good indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is one more chapter. My Beta will no doubt see to it that chapter nine is uploaded in a more timely fashion, yes?
> 
> Thank you for reading and please, please let me know what you think of this chapter and this story. :D


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: John visits the dry cleaners and borrows tea. Sherlock gets a visit from mind palace Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my beta, Old Ping Hai for her support and for editing both recently and in the past.
> 
> All errors remaining in this chapter are my own. (That makes me sound greedy, like I don't want to share my errors with anyone. But that's not true. I'd be happy to share my errors. Or fix them. If you see any errors, please let me know so that I can edit them—or share them, whatever floats your boat.) :D 
> 
> And of course, I do not own the rights to Sherlock or anything even remotely related to Sherlock.

**Chapter 9**

"Sherlock!"

"Wake up, Sherlock!"

It took enormous effort, but Sherlock finally opened his eyes. The room was pleasantly dim, illuminated by the grey light that crept past the edges of the tawdry, ill-hung drapes. John sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in tight, faded jeans and a big, frumpy oatmeal-colored fisherman's jumper.

Sherlock blinked. The first thing that his great mind deduced was that John Watson actually _prefered_ ugly, over-sized jumpers. Then he deduced that he himself had slept like a rock (a small miracle), that it was morning (well, anyone with half a brain could have deduced that), and that it was raining lightly (again obvious).

'Really, Sherlock?' he asked himself, although Mycroft's sarcastic tones overrode his own mental voice. 'However did you deduce that?'

'Well, it's dripping outside the window,' Sherlock answered himself, 'and John's hair is wet.'

John's tawny hair was shot through with rain drops, though his hideous jumper was dry. With sugar coated lips, the leprechaun smiled down at Sherlock. while eating a jam-filled donut. Adoration radiated off John like glamour.

Sherlock adored his leprechaun right back and wanted to lick that sugar off his lover's lips, and get that bit of jam left in the corner of John's mouth. He smiled at the blond from under hooded eyes, appreciating the way John's pupils dilated in response to a simple smirk.

'Really? That's it?' demanded Mycroft; well it was actually the rational, non-lovesick portion of Sherlock's brain. But it often had the annoying habit of sounding just like Sherlock's irritating sibling. 'You're missing everything of importance.'

'It _is_ unusual for me to sleep so long…'

'No, Sherlock! _Look_ at him!' demanded Mycroft sternly.

"Mm," hummed the detective, admiring his adorable, jumper-wearing lover.

"Good morning," said John, smiling wider and waving his donut.

Then the leprechaun leaned down to give the brunet a sweet kiss. A few drops of water dripped from John's hair.

'He’s wet. It must be raining,’ thought the love-addled detective. ‘So… John was out in the rain? I wonder why? And more importantly, what has been up to?'

'Finally,' snapped Mycroft/'rational Sherlock, ‘And what else?’

John, unaware of the mental discussion, stood up. He opened the shoddy drapes, allowing grey light to filter through tatty yellowed sheers.

'And just where did John get that ugly jumper?' thought Sherlock, ignoring the drapes. 'And the donuts?'

'Exactly!' snapped Mycroft. Mental Mycroft was as acerbic as the real one.

'John went shopping.'

"Except," prompted the logical part of his brain.

"Except that...John has no money,' thought Sherlock. 'Perhaps he took my wallet?'

'Which is on the nightstand where you left it last night,' replied Mycroft. 'The wallet has been untouched. Your _leprechaun_ was running about a modern city, doing heaven only knows what…'

Sherlock slammed the door on mental Mycroft, who was as irritating as the real person. He struggled to a sitting position, running his hand through his hair.

"Where..." Sherlock's voice was as rusty as his groggy brain. "Where did you...get clothes and…"

"I borrowed these clothes from a shop," said John, proudly smoothing down the front of his jumper as if it were knit from the finest cashmere. Then he gifted the younger man with another slow, sweet, serious kiss before continuing, "I also borrowed some tea in these white cups. They are surprisingly delicate.” He held his Styrofoam aloft. “You must be careful not to squeeze them too hard, lest you accidentally crush them and spill tea everywhere—as I discovered earlier. Oh, I also borrowed these truly scrumptious cakes from a lovely-smelling bakery. Oh, you should have seen the bread...well, actually, you can. Or at least you can see the rolls. I borrowed some of them too. And some jam."

While John chattered on about jam pots, rolls and frosted cakes, Sherlock dropped bonelessly back into the lumpy pillows.

He knew that he should pursue this line of questioning. He knew that it was risky for John to explore on his own, given his tendency use magic in a world manifestly unprepared for John Watson. However, the genius from London was distracted by a strange feeling—feeling that he barely recognized—a feeling that told him that everything was fine. In spite of evrthing, Sherlock felt satiated and relaxed and _happy_.

That was it! Sherlock Holmes felt happy, which was something new. Sherlock could not truly remember having felt happy in decades. Oh, he sometimes felt proud satisfaction after solving a difficult case, and he felt contentment when playing his violin or running a stimulating experiment.

But shockingly, this short, sugar-dusted and very affectionate mythical creature, who happened to dress like someone's grandfather, was able to make Sherlock Holmes deliriously happy.

And John's adoration for Sherlock was blatant and beyond doubt.

It should have been cloying or worrisome. But no, it was comforting and exhilarating and better than drugs or a closed-room murder on Christmas day.

This feeling of joy and (dare he even think it?) love made the shabby hotel room lovely. It filled the room with the memory of golden lights and echoes of the scents of growing things.

'Scents do not have echoes,' began his Mycroft-sounding rational voice. Sherlock slammed the mental door on Mycroft again and threw the mental deadbolt for good measure.

Sherlock only half-listened to the leprechaun's prattle about a garden in the inn's courtyard. Sherlock was vaguely worried that his mind had become soft and dull from all these sentiments—last night's incredible sex may not have helped either.

After a moment's deliberation, he found that he was much too happy to care whether his brain turned to mush.

The younger man rearranged the pillows so that he could sit properly. He snagged John's hand and tugged him close enough to kiss his damp hair. As he nuzzled John's sweet-smelling hair (this morning it smelled of fresh-cut hay and apple blossoms), he idly wondered who cut John's hair. Did fairies have barbers? He wondered what time it was, and how long John had been out of their room.

Not that John wasn't free to come and go as he pleased—within reason. Actually, John shouldn't be coming and going on his own, at least not until he was more comfortable with the twenty-first century and had learned how to pass as a normal human. But it was already too late, wasn't it, thought the World's Only Consulting Detective. John had been up very early and had gone shopping before most shops had even opened.

But how had John gotten out of bed and out of the room without waking Sherlock in the first place? After all, Sherlock Holmes famously required almost no sleep at all and thought of himself as a light sleeper whenever he did succumb to his transport's demands for rest. He wondered whether leprechauns slept even less than consulting detectives. And could this present a problem?

John had stopped talking, but kept eating; he fairly purred as Sherlock absently stroked the short blond hair over the nape of his neck.

Chuckling again (Sherlock silently acknowledged that had laughed more times in the past week than he had in the past ten years), he pulled John even closer to peck at John's lips, tasting the sugar and licking away that tempting bit of jam. John cuddled close, running his hand down Sherlock's bare torso before resting his fingers on a bony hip. Sherlock leaned back against the rickety headboard, raising crossed arms above his head.

The detective sighed; he was horribly, boringly, shockingly happy.

"Will you not drink the tea?" asked John finally. "It's not nearly as good as I would make for you if I had a kettle, but it’s not bad either."

With a grave look, indicating the importance John placed on tea, he handed the cup to the lounging brunet.

Sherlock looked doubtfully at the cup in his hand. He hated disposable cups, which leached the flavor of plastic into their contents like poison. He'd learned this prejudice from Mycroft and never questioned it. However, the sweet scents of tea and honey wafted up from the despicable styrofoam, and he did not want to be rude to John. Besides, refusing the drink would be Mycroftish and therefore repugnant.

He took a sip of the purloined beverage; it was surprisingly good, and he said so.

The leprechaun beamed from behind another jam-filled doughnut. The smile reminded Sherlock of his strange half-awake dream about a sunrise, which had followed their passionate love-making.

Sherlock's rational self desperately needed to put a halt to all this sentimental nonsense. His logical half needed to reassert itself, if only just a little. His scientific self insisted on looking at the situation in the cold, clear light of reason.

'The tea, Sherlock—where did he get the tea?' suggested mental Mycroft.

'How did you get back in, Mycroft,' thought Sherlock, with a down-curled lip, 'Go away and stop trying to ruin everything!'

'Think Sherlock!' Think about the tea!'

All right, where had the tea come from? Sherlock recalled that John said that he had borrowed it. All right then. What was Mycroft on about then? Apparently John had arisen early and set out to commit petit larceny for tea, baked goods and a truly hideous jumper.

Not that the leprechaun's larcenous behavior was a moral problem for Sherlock. As far as he was concerned, John deserved to have anything he wanted, whenever he wanted. However, the rest of the world would consider thievery a problem. The rest of the world would call John a criminal and arrest him, taking him away from Sherlock. That would be a problem; indeed it would be a catastrophe. Anything that kept John away from Sherlock was a disaster to be avoided at all costs.

The detective's pink lips turned way down in disapproval. "John, I do not think that the correct term is borrowing," said the detective. "I believe that the technical term is stealing. You stole the tea and the clothes, and since I do not want you to be arrested, you should not…"

"No, it's not stealing. You yourself called it borrowing when you borrowed x-rays and coffee at hospital, and you forgot to mention that I borrowed these cakes and rolls for us, too. The cakes are fried and they're quite delicious. Here, try one."

John thrust a doughnut into Sherlock's face.

"I'm not hungr…"

"Yes, you are," said John and now his smile faded, which Sherlock found to be unacceptable. He wanted John to be happy.

"I suppose you aren't actually _hungry_. I think the technical term you want is _ravenous_ ," continued the blond. "Your grumbling stomach woke me up in the first place, which is why I went out in search of food."

The detective frowned even more, because his transport had betrayed him again and was the cause of John's illegal activities. Nevertheless, he accepted the doughnut, making John smile again. It was as if sunlight filled the room.

'Mission accomplished,' thought the smug sleuth at the return of John's grin.

"I didn't steal anything," continued John, and the smile faded. "Although I suppose it wasn't really borrowing either." The older man's forehead scrunched up as he considered the moral and linguistic dilemma. Then his furrowed brow smoothed as his grin returned. "Actually, it was more in the way of a barter. I took some stuff that people didn't really need, and left them with something that they actually wanted."

"Hmm?" questioned the detective from around his doughnut.

"Hmm? Oh, you mean what. What I left them was good fortune and fertility."

The detective couldn't resist a knowing smirk. "I think that you'll find that most merchants prefer currency."

"I don't know," said John doubtfully. "I've found that lots of people really like good luck and fertility."

"Nowadays, people like money," said Sherlock, absently accepting another donut from his paramour—anything to keep John happy and wearing that breathtaking smile of his.

The coldly rational detective decided to correct John for his own good while speaking around the jam-filled donut, "Now to be quite frank, John, I could care less whether you stole these items, although I do have to question your taste," he added, as he fingered John's shapeless jumper.

John frowned, petting his ugly jumper protectively.

"But I will care if you get captured while shoplifting and become embroiled in the legal system," continued Sherlock. "We agreed that we need to get you back to England as soon as possible. Legal entanglements will delay our escape. You could be taken off to jail, or those fairies could capture you. Either way, I couldn't bear it if you were taken from me."

John gasped and turned pale at the suggestion of separation.

The blond stopped devouring sweets and put on his adorable John-is-trying-to-think face again. Logical Sherlock threw up his hands at the ridiculous sentiments eating away at his brain like acid.

"Separation would be very, very bad," agreed John, slowly nodding his head. "It would be intolerable. All right, no more bartering. Since I need currency, I suppose I could borrow some currency from a bank…"

"No. No. No!" said Sherlock loudly. "You would certainly get caught if you tried to rob a bank!”

"Not if I was unseen…"

Sherlock felt a bit panicky at the thought of John attempting to borrow money from a bank. He felt sick at the thought of John being dragged off in handcuffs. He had to stop John from committing bank robbery—or any other robbery. "John, you don't need to steal money. I will give you as much money as you want."

"Ohhhh. Well if you want to gift me money," said John, "that would be acceptable. But you've already gifted me so much, too much...it might cause an unlucky imbalance. Maybe…maybe we could do a _trade_." Predictably, John's brow had crumpled as he considered his options. Then the imaginary light turned on over John's head. "I know, in return for currency, I will gift you with a great deal of luck and fertility."

A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips as he bit into a jam-slathered roll. "John, I do not require anything in return. I will happily accept your so-called 'good luck'. However, I have no need of fertility."

"Mmm," said John, nodding. "Of course you don't need any fertility right now. I knew that."

The younger man's smile remained. "We're both men, John. What good is fertility between us?"

" _I'm_ not a man, Sherlock," said John patting his lover's hand. "I'm a leprechaun."

"John, scientifically speaking…"

"Yes, yes. Never mind fertility. It's not important today," said John, looking at Sherlock's wristwatch, which sat on the nightstand next to the detective's wallet. "It's getting late and I don't want to miss the flight of the Aer Lingus aero-plane, especially since it was your first official gift to me. Your suit is cleaned and pressed. I asked the launderer to do it. At first he said no, because his shop wasn't open, but then I offered to heal his back for him…"

"John, we agreed. No more magic until it is safe. You need to keep a low profile! We don't want your fairy friends to tracking you down."

"They can't find me. I have a stinky but powerful witch’s amulet."

"We also don't want to attract the attention of any government officials with your blatant displays of prestidigitation."

"I do not engage in slight of hand, Sherlock. I am able to share luck and health magically. Anyway, the launderer was in pain, Sherlock. I couldn't just ignore his pain; I had to heal him. I would have done it for free, but I know how much you value your fine costume, so I set it all up as a trade in kind—see, no stealing involved. And I kept a low profile, just like you said last night when we were in the cab." John held his finger by his nose, apparently to impart that he was very cagey. "I never mentioned magic. I told the launderer that I had learned a special massage whilst in the West Indies, which has the benefit of being true. I did learn massage from a witch who had been to the West Indies, not Mary, another witch. I did not mention that I am also a leprechaun; I kept that a secret. Nick, his name was Nick, agreed to our bargain, and while I rubbed his back, I also healed him. At first he wanted more. In fact, for some reason, he thought we were going to have sex following the massage." John blinked in confused remembrance.

Sherlock bolted upright as his brows descended in fury. He couldn't decide whether he should end Nick's miserable existence or whether it would be more prudent to flee back to England with his sprite who couldn't resist using magic at every turn.

John's eyes had widened at the sight of his angry lover, "Howsomever," John added quickly. "I convinced Nick that we would not be sharing intimate relations now or ever. I may have sprained him—a bit. Then, once he had gotten over his disappointment about not having sex, we each had a beer, which was very cold and kind of gross. I do not understand this habit of chilling beer and ale—except perhaps in the summer. It might be nice when the weather is hot. Then I healed his wrist, because now we were clearly friends. And after that, I helped him wash your shirt and then cleaned your suit and then we pressed everything, which was fascinating, because we used an electric press. I pressed a fair few extra shirts just for fun. Did I mention that I love electricity?"

"John, thank you for pressing my suit…"

"You're welcome, dear heart," said John, kissing Sherlock tenderly.

"However..."

"No. We don't have time for howevers."

"We do have time. We need to discuss when it is appropriate for you to flirt with others, which is never. And we need to discuss when it is safe to perform magic, which is almost never."

"Yes, yes. But not right now. Right now, you need to get ready for flying in the Aer Lingus areo-plane to Heathrow Airport," said John, tugging on the blankets.

Sherlock sighed. "You may be right."

The leprechaun beamed. Sherlock frowned, grumbling, "Since you chose to demonstrate your magical and larcenous proclivities to the entire neighborhood, the sooner we leave the better." The brunet threw back the covers and stood up.

John licked his lips as he admired his lover's naked form. The sight may have been overwhelming because he was forced to close his eyes and adjust his tight jeans.

"The aero-plane will be exciting," said John, as if distracting himself. "I can't wait to fly over the land and sea and…"

"I just want to get out of here before people come looking for the cute little blond who flirts outragously with strangers, performs miracles of healing and trades fertility for donuts," muttered Sherlock.

"Cute? I am not cute! And nor do I flirt with strangers. Nick is not a stranger...and anyway I wasn't flirting. Furthermore, the baker doesn't _know_ that I gave her fertility. I was unseen, and the transaction was a secret. But she'll be very happy in a few months. In fact, since her husband is home on leave, I think they'll be blessed with a beautiful baby in a little over nine months."

"Babies are not beautiful. They look like mushy prunes."

John blinked in surprise at this pronouncement. "No, babies are lovely."

"No, they are ugly. And they are loud, messy and inconvenient. Never mind about babies, John. In view of your recent activities, I think we should leave sooner rather than later."

That seemed to suit the leprechaun, whose sunny smile lit up the room.

"I shall be ready in a just a few minutes," said Sherlock, heading for the bathroom and a quick shower. "In the meantime, wait in here for me."

"Yes."

"Don't go outside."

"Fine."

"No magic."

"No. I wasn't going to use any magic," said John, tearing off a piece of bread. "I get tired if I use too much magic. Unless I have something to concentrate the magic, like ambergris, which you promised me…",p > "Ambergris will have to wait."

"Well, then I'm too tired for any more magic."

Sherlock nodded, grateful for small favors.

"I got you some things from the apothecary," said John, handing the nude brunet a small carrier bag. "A new-fangled disposable razor like the one in hospital that you wouldn't let me keep because I cut my thumb on it and a toothbrush and toothpowder, which it was very hard to find tooth powder. It was hiding behind some nasty toothpaste, which was the only thing I didn't like in hospital. There's also some deodorant here, because Harry says that smelling like a human being is bad, which is weird since she's a human being too. Personally, I don't mind a bit of musk. I like your musk. I want to taste it…"

Sherlock briefly lost his train of thought when he imagined the leprechaun tasting his musk.

"By the way, I used your deodorant so that I won't smell human and musky, but I borrowed my own toothbrush, because Harry said that humans think…"

"What did you barter for all this?"

"Nothing. I stole them. Nick the launderer told me that the apothecary cheats his customers, so he deserves bad luck." John looked thoughtful as he chewed yet another mouthful of roll slowly. "Only the launderer called the apothecary a chemist."

Sherlock sighed, "Were you invisible?"

"I was unseen."

"Good. Stay here. Borrow nothing. I am taking my shower," said Sherlock.

"Wait. I have a question," said John. "The launderer enjoyed hearing about our coupling last night. He offered me some tips, after I confessed that last night was my first time laying with a man. Then he offered to demonstrate, and I almost had to sprain him again. I told him, Mrs. Watson's son wasn't born yesterday, although when you consider that I was born over two hundred years ago, I actually was born yesterday. Yes…well, to make a long story short…" John must have noticed Sherlock's increasing irritation. "…to make up for accosting me, he suggested that I go to the apothecary's to buy you some Lube. He said it would make it easier for you to shag my sexy little behind. Only I didn't see anything called Lube at the apothecary's, and I couldn't ask the apothecary because the shop wasn't open yet. That's when I realized that I should have accepted Nick's offer to help me find this Lube…"

"If I ever meet Nick, I will kill him," said Sherlock coolly. John stared in appalled astonishment before blushing in smug self-satisfaction.

Ignoring the leprechaun's smirk, Sherlock ordered, "Stay here. Speak to no one, and do nothing except breathe."

"And eat," added John, tearing a roll in half and slathering it with jam.

Sherlock stalked to the loo, leaving the bathroom door open so that he could keep an eye on John. John mischievously grinned at the detective, taking Sherlock's breath away and irritating the man in equal measures.

The detective's shower was fast and very cold. The frigid water helped chill both his desire to shag John's sexy little behind and his equally strong desire to kill the man at the dry cleaners.

Thirty minutes later, they were ready. They traveled light, carrying only John's recent acquisitions. Sherlock only brought them along, because he didn't want to leave behind any evidence of John's 'borrowing spree'. He hoped that John's stay in the neighborhood would not arouse much interest, aside from Nick, but better safe than sorry.

Sherlock opened the hotel room's door and stepped into the grey morning mist, which fell gently on a small, radiantly colorful garden. Wild flowers, small bushes and small, blooming fruit trees fought for space in a fifty-yard radius around their hotel door.

Moss and tiny herbs thrived in the cracks between the hotel's mortar and sheets of ivy crawled up towards the rusty gutter. There were bell-shaped blooms and roses surrounding the door and window of their room forming a sort of bower.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, and breathed in to calm himself. He inhaled the sweet-scented air of a miniature Eden. Wild flowers and grasses fought for space in the onetime car park. Overnight, plants had sprouted and even seemed to thrive in the cracked pavement. Somehow flowering trees (apple or perhaps cherry) now grew in the litter filled dirt alongside the road.

Sherlock bit his lip, scanned the miraculous garden and the steadily growing crowd of amazed onlookers and then turned to his leprechaun, who had the grace to look a bit embarrassed.

"John, I just asked you not to perform any magic," said Sherlock, waving his hand at the ersatz garden.

"This happened last night, before you insisted on the no magic rule," said John. "It happened when we coupled, and it's not my fault anyway. It was Beltane."

The detective slowly tilted his head.

" _Why_ did it happen?"

"Because we coupled," said John, trying to push past the taller man. “Well, lets go!”

"Will this happen every time we…couple?"

"No. Only sometimes," said John, cautiously meeting Sherlock's eyes. “Can we go now?”

"And when can I expect…"

"Look, it's perfectly natural. It's nothing more than an overflow of fertility. It had to go somewhere," said John, squinting at a small blue butterfly that had landed on Sherlock's shoulder. "The magic is very powerful on Beltane. I do believe that auto-mobile is our hired livery. You can see it just behind the apple tree."

John waved excitedly at the cabbie, who was staring and rubbing his eyes at the new garden.

"Yes, that is our cab," said Sherlock evenly.

"And will we get in it?" asked John, trying to brush past the detective.

"John, I need to know how to stop you from growing a jungle every time we…"

"It's not a jungle. It's a few flowers...and trees...and maybe some roses. I like roses…"

"John, there are butterflies and crickets."

"Yes. And look," added John, pointing to the apple tree again, "there's a robin's nest. They'll be laying eggs very soon."

Sherlock sighed and took his leprechaun's hand.

"John, can you control this….this..."

"This fertility?" suggested the leprechaun.

"Yes, fine. Can you control this fertility?"

"Yes. Except on Beltane…and Mid-summer's Eve," John scrunched up his brow again, "and it might be hard to control the magic during the full moon—sometimes."

"I shall remember this and plan accordingly," said the consulting detective, holding the blond's hand rather tighter than might be expected. "Now, John, you need to remember that you must hide your magic. People will not understand. Try to remember what you were like before you met the fairies. Surely your people were suspicious of magic, were they not?"

"Maybe," said John dubiously.

"Trust me, John," said Sherlock, leading his leprechaun through the garden. "Just do no magic, none at all, until we get to the cottage in Sussex. Even there, I would prefer you to discuss it with me first. At least until you understand the risks."

"Right," agreed John, frowning in concentration as they approached the waiting taxi. "But Sherlock, what exactly do you mean when you say _no magic_? Because I think I might want to give the aero-plane some good luck before we get in it, since it's going to be flying up very high, and that's exciting but a little scary, too. And maybe I should give the livery driver some good luck because he's quite hung over and auto-mobiles move very fast. They're a bit dangerous, which is good. I like dangerous. But I also think a bit'o luck wouldn't go amiss."

Sherlock had to bend to avoid the low-hanging branches of the apple tree as he gently but firmly shoved his leprechaun into the cab.

The detective pretended not to hear the locals exclaiming over the garden, which had sprung up in the car park. He pretended not to notice when his leprechaun glowed faintly in spite of Sherlock's injunction, no doubt giving a bit'o luck to the cabbie, who was indeed hung-over.

Then John smiled at his lover, lighting up the cab's rather dirty interior, and Sherlock's lips slowly tipped up into an answering grin. John was happy, and soon he would be safe, at least from fairy attacks. And clearly, Sherlock would not suffer from boredom as long as John was around. So perhaps all was well.

The cabbie shook his head in confused sobriety as he drove the taxi past three news reporters, Emergency Response Personnel and several nuns who knelt in reverent prayer.

Sherlock heard his leprechaun whisper that the sisters had mistaken the very natural explosion of luck and fertility for a miracle, which was a very different thing.

"Don't be an idiot, John," murmured Sherlock. "The garden is a miracle, because you are a miracle, my miracle."

"Oh," said John, looking pleased.

Logical Sherlock took control long enough to half-heartedly bemoan all this romantic rot and to order the cabbie to take them to the airport. Then the reasonable portion of Sherlock's brain surrendered to his irrational sentimental side, because even Logical Sherlock had fallen in love with his leprechaun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my story. :D
> 
> A huge **THANK YOU!** to those who have left comments. Your comments always make me very happy :D
> 
> And **Coming Soon** to a web enabled device near you:  
>  The stunning sequel to **Leprechaun** , once called **When Death Came to Tea** , and now shortened to **Death Tea**. Starring Sherlock and Leprechaun John! With special appearances by Mycroft, Mummy, Mr. Holmes (aka Father). And of course everyone's favorite, The Grim Reaper. (Plus cameos from supernatural and legendary characters.) **Don't miss it!**

**Author's Note:**

> So it was St. Patrick's Day one year ago. McIrish music was playing at a certain fast food place, when this plot bunny attacked, forcing me to write a one-shot about John the leprechaun. The plot bunnies multiplied. Leprechaun became a nine chapter story. It begat a sequel called, When Death Came to Tea (aka Death Tea), which begat another sequel called My Heart. Leprechaun and Death Tea are complete and were originally published on Fanfic. This means that I should be able to update Leprechaun on AO3 weekly  
> This chapter of Leprechaun has been largely re-written (hopefully improving it). It has also been beta'ed by the incomparable OLD PING HAI. Any remaining errors are of course my own.  
> And speaking of errors, I know very little about Ireland and even less about leprechauns; I apologize in advance for any errors that I might make concerning either the Irish or magical beings. Also, I am not British, lack a Brit-picker and pre-emptively apologize for all glaring Americanisms.  
> I relish reader's comments and appreciate con-crit. Please do leave me comments at the end of the chapter.  
> Finally, THE RITUAL DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to the BBC's Sherlock or any characters, dialogue or plots from said show.  
> :D


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